


in regards to love

by amorremanet



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (both of these things are in chapter 8), (in ch. 10), (the loss of limb is mostly offscreen; the drunk driving is NOT), Abusive Sendak (Voltron), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Sports, Anxiety, Background Relationships, Chubby Keith (Voltron), Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Drunk Driving, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Figure Skater Keith (Voltron), Figure Skater Shiro (Voltron), Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Inspired by Yuri!!! on Ice, Iverson is Shiro's Godfather, Keith & Shiro both deal with it throughout, Keith (Voltron) was Raised by the Blade of Marmora, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Minor Sendak/Shiro (Voltron), Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, it's mostly slight & inspired by YOI but it's there, karma comes for him in the end though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-08 04:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17974532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: Takashi Shirogane never meant to establish himself as a figure skating god; he only wanted to do what he loves and skate. He also didn’t intend to fall for Keith Kogane, a younger skater who’d be an absolute prodigy, if he could focus better and truly channel his passion into his skating. Shiro definitely didn’t plan on becoming a coach barely two years after losing his right arm in the “accident” that his monster ex-boyfriend got them into.On the other hand, though, Keith never meant to become Shiro’s friend, much less anything else, and he perpetually struggles to believe that Shiro wants literally anything to do with him. WhyshouldShiro want Keith in his life? He’s just a kid from Marmora who happens to skate half-decently. There is absolutely no way that carrying this torch for Shiro ends remotely well for Keith and if he were half as intelligent as his Mom likes to pretend he is, Keith would break things off before they go too far. That’s the best life-choice Keith has available to him.(Un)Fortunately, neither Keith nor Shiro has much capacity for making good life-choices.





	1. Torino—2006.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perfectlyrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlyrose/gifts).



> Written for perfectlyrose as part of the Shiro’s Birthday 2019 round of the VLD Exchange! I’m so sorry that it’s going up so late, but I hope that you enjoy. ♡♡♡♡
> 
> The minor/background/past relationships in this fic are: Adam/Lotor/Shiro (friends, then lovers, then Shiro breaks off the romance while Adam/Lotor stays on); Sendak/Shiro (an abusive garbage fire); Keith/OMC (NPC college boyfriend who cheats on him); Shiro/OMCs (one briefly referenced friend-with-benefits + one NPC loser who took advantage of Shiro when he was ~15-16); Adam/Lance/Lotor (endgame for them); Hunk/Romelle; James/Kinkade (but this one is really, “Blink and you’ll miss it”); and Allura/Zethrid (but that one’s even more, “Blink and you’ll miss it”).
> 
> Additionally, while this is a _Yuuri On Ice!_ fusion AU, you don’t really need to know YOI canon to read it. Acknowledging it as a YOI AU felt right to me, since it was inspired by YOI and I did map the VLD characters onto the YOI characters to an extent, but they also have their own stories with each other and while there are a handful of minor shout-outs and a few big scenes that borrow from YOU, any major/direct references to YOI canon stay in the author’s notes (i.e., no one will discuss JJ Leroy or the Crispino twins in-character).
> 
> On a slightly different, “playing with canon”-related note: the names of different VLD-canon alien planets (Altea, Daibazaal, Olkarion, and Nalquod), or a certain secret society of outer space librarian-spies (Marmora), have been turned into countries, in this reality, much in the same way that _The Princess Diaries_ has Genovia, the Marvel universe has Latveria and Wakanda, etc.
> 
> Also, although some IRL figure skaters get name-dropped periodically (especially Johnny Weir, because I’m a hopeless stan), no IRL athletes were harmed in the writing of this fanfiction. Characters’ opinions of said IRL athletes are also not necessarily my own.
> 
> Finally, [**this AU has a soundtrack**](https://open.spotify.com/user/amorremanet/playlist/6FFtdneHQCuBbZzKz0x7o3?si=_4OfvmnHTPiRXmc_8LReyQ)! More specifically, it has a Spotify playlist with different songs that the characters skate to at one point or another (though not all of them actually get referenced in the fic). There is also a convenient list of who skates what [**over here, on Google Docs**](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pMC5ice9Mk4uQSY2n53VeaRJMkgg74vu35ryg-I60Rw/edit?usp=sharing). ♡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As suggested by the dates on this chapter and subsequent ones, a lot of this fic would be considered backstory for the actual _Yuuri On Ice!_ series. Ultimately, this fic is only getting up through the events of the anime’s first episode (i.e., up to Shiro showing up very, very naked in the Fam of Marmora’s hot springs and going, “Keith, my love, I am home and going to be your figure skating coach”). This is because, while I love Victuuri and their canon backstory with each other, I felt like Shiro and Keith would’ve wound up with a somewhat different history, by virtue of being Shiro and Keith, rather than Yuuri-but-more-ostensibly-temperamental and Victor-with-a-bionic-prosthetic-arm, respectively.
> 
> TL;DR: Sheith are loosely in Victuuri’s places for this AU, but are still _themselves_ , and I wanted to explore their unique backstory with each other (not least because it has so many opportunities for Mutual Pining Idiots).

Although the crowd at Turin’s Palavela fell silent when the Champions Gala resumed, chatter breaks out again as Shiro skates to the rink’s center. Nearly in unison, a horde of restless onlookers gawk and whisper, and it takes superhuman effort not to smirk. At that, he only resists temptation so he won’t spoil any of the surprise.

Over the din, the nasally Emcee rattles off a lovely string of Italian that Shiro couldn’t translate if his life depended on it. He knows approximately what the words mean, though: a first-time Olympian takes the ice, four days shy of his seventeenth birthday, having impressed the world, done his country proud, and earned a bronze medal. Even after his stellar performance in the most recent ISU Grand Prix series and the silver medal he won at last month’s nationals, no one expected him to do so well at the Winter Games. Yet, only Stéphane Lambiel and Johnny Weir out-skated him, so Shiro’s results more than satisfy.

“Representing the United States of America,” a clear voice announces on the loudspeakers, “Takashi Shirogane!”

Taking his spot, Shiro rolls out his shoulders and shakes his head. The tips of his thick, black ponytail sneak past his collar to tease along his tawny skin. As he slithers into his starting position, Shiro struggles to keep himself together. No matter how much excitement bubbles inside him like Pop-Rocks in a bottle of Diet Coke, threatening to boil over, Shiro fights his face into a neutral-seeming mask. He can’t give away too much before the show’s begun; it might lessen the impact.

Not that Shiro lacks any dramatic effect, given his costume. He wore an ethereal, androgynous, black-and-purple number for his “Musetta’s Waltz” short program. For his free skate—set to a selection of “The Swan of Tuonela,” from Sibelius’s _Lemminkäinen Suite_ , Op. 22—Shiro dressed in snow-white with silver accents and bell sleeves that looked like wings with how Uncle Mitch, his coach and godfather, taught him to move his arms. From the reactions that Shiro’s heard, both programs possessed such grace and beauty that some people decided he must secretly be a faerie prince, and not a teenage boy from California, who loves figure skating more than anything else in life.

Now, though, he stands before the spectators in a white t-shirt, tucked into leggings that look like white denim. For good luck and calmer nerves, Shiro fumbles with his silver chain necklace; he spins each of Mom and Dad’s wedding and engagement rings twice, then slips them under his collar. Cocking one hip, he rests his right hand on his thigh and his left wrist on his back. Arching his back ever-so-slightly, Shiro angles himself so the crowd and cameras can’t miss the black block letters splashed across his chest, spelling out, _“ACT UP. FIGHT AIDS.”_

For all he keeps his expression even, Shiro can’t help thinking, _How’s_ ** _this_** _for a welcome back from intermission, Torino?_

Shoving that thought aside makes Shiro wonder who all he knows, out there in the crowd. Uncle Mitch, obviously. Thace and Sanda, who respectively coach Lotor and Adam. Not Obaasan or Ojiisan, because his doctor wouldn’t clear him to fly. Aunt Satomi and Naoko, her wife, stayed home with them in California. Sendak, that hockey player, captain and star center-forward for Team Daibazaal, who gave Shiro permission to call him, _“Maurice”_ —but he wouldn’t have come to the Gala. There’s no reason for it.

Right as Shiro inhales, his ears prick up. Moving with the spunky guitar riff, Shiro rolls his hips and whips his arms. He leans toward his left bicep as a deep voice sings, _“I wanna jitterbug!”_ —and he holds the position perfectly as he snaps his fingers.

Another two rounds of this, and Shiro’s chest lights up with joy and relief. As the high-pitched synthesizers trill and one of his favorite songs starts in earnest—as he pushes off down the ice and into a chipper step sequence, full of swaying hips and swishing arms—Shiro doesn’t need to force a smile. A grin explodes onto his face of its own accord, like the birth of a star, straining his lips until they could split open. Even balancing through his spritely initial rush comes as naturally as breathing. He only hopes he looks as sunshiny as the whole world feels for him right now.

As Shiro swivels through his first crossfoot spin, George Michael croons, _“You left me sleepin’ in my bed. I was dreamin’—”_ Shiro kicks out of the spin, taking a deep breath, building speed, getting ready— _“—but I should’ve been with you instead!”_

Two staccato strums; it’s time. Shiro springs into a triple axel on, _“Wake me up!”_

He lands during, _“Before you go-go!”_ —and through, _“Don’t leave me hangin’ on like a yo-yo,”_ Shiro throws himself into another spin. He kicks his leg into position behind him. Arching back, feeling the song vibrate down his nerves, Shiro flings his arms open and only barely fights back the impulse to shout, _“Are you not entertained?!”_

Throughout his program, the music moves through him, pulsing with his blood. The beat feels at one with his heartbeat and the melody lives in his veins. Dimly, he hears commentators narrating all his moves, but he doesn’t register what they’re saying. The way the crowd claps in time with his music, that’s far more interesting.

In the back of his mind, doubt snarls that the commentators might find this program too boring, too simple—but Shiro tamps this thought down, launching into a triple lutz-triple toe loop combination. No, he hasn’t planned any quads, regardless of how much people love them. It doesn’t matter, though. Shiro beams at the fans regardless, only letting his smile falter so he can embody the lovelorn pining woven into “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.” Feeling the music like he does—letting it move in him, bringing something new to life on the ice—that helped get Shiro on the podium. He can’t let go of that gift now, can’t get in his head about the difficulty of his jumps.

True, he landed all of his quad toe loops and quad salchows in his short program and his free skate—but his one quad loop came up slightly under-rotated. He’s never landed a quad flip in practice, much less a lutz. All up, Uncle Mitch had the right idea, telling Shiro to go easier on himself for this performance. Exhibition skates aren’t about winning or fretting over the base value of any given moves. Instead, Shiro should put on a good show and enjoy himself, so he intends to do exactly that. When he holds his arms over his head, making a ‘Tano jump out of his second triple lutz, Shiro only cares for the ecstasy surging in him and the crowd, roaring with applause.

During the bridge, Shiro feels his energy start flagging. But he can’t slip up after getting this far in his program. Deep breaths, clear mind, heart focused on the music and the show and pleasing the crowd—pushing through his combination spin, he lets his face droop. This part of the song goes more softly than the rest, so Shiro’s expression might match the pleading lyrics. He puts the smile back on for the chorus, though. No rushing, simply moving with the music and letting the music move in him, building up speed for his triple lutz, the last big jump that he has planned. It’s like Ojiisan says and Mitch repeats whenever Shiro gets too antsy: _Patience yields focus._

Shiro inhales. In the song, George Michael goes high for another, “ _Wake! me up!”_ —and Shiro leaps off the ice.

When he lands, the crowd erupts in the strongest applause they’ve given him tonight, even though he doesn’t hit the right beat. No matter, though. They’re enjoying themselves and Shiro definitely got enough rotations for his triple flip. So, Shiro grins out at his audience and dances through the rest of his program. As in practice with Uncle Mitch, Shiro whips out of his final spin and throws his arms wide open as the song dies down, beaming and making sure that everyone sees the message on his t-shirt.

Applause flares up again like a wildfire. Which, Shiro’s certain, surely qualifies as weird. Sure, the crowds responded positively to his programs in the actual competition, but they weren’t nearly this loud or this enthusiastic. 

It’s not until he’s heading backstage that Shiro hears one of the commentators crowing at their camera, “Yes, it’s true, folks! You saw it here, on NBC. Bronze-medalist, Takashi Shirogane, has just dazzled the crowd at Torino with his powerhouse exhibition skate, closing it out with an amazing quadruple lutz! Absolutely stunning!”

Heart in his throat and entire body vibrating with nervous energy, blinking up at the people in the stands, all Shiro manages to think is, _Oh, okay. I guess that explains a lot._

As he presses on, Shiro has no idea how he stays upright. His head’s swamped down in too many swirling thoughts for him to keep up with, and God, he needs to find his friends before someone tries to corner him for an interview.

  


* * *

  


Once he’s skulked backstage, Shiro _should_ get his nerves to settle. He should breathe more easily and meet everyone’s praise on his last jump with gracious smiles and thanks. He shouldn’t gasp when Adam and Lotor—his best (and only real) friends, skaters from the Canadian and Altean teams, who placed fifth and fourth, respectively—shove their way past the other skaters and come to hug him in congratulations. While hugging them back, Shiro shouldn’t feel so dazed that he can barely tell what his arms are doing.

Fortunately, Adam and Lotor recognize what Shiro’s overwhelm looks like. A quick glance between them, and they spring into action. Adam apologizes for them to the other champions as Lotor elbows back through the horde, getting Shiro to the locker room and its relative solitude. They get him sitting on one of the benches, ask after what he thinks he needs and whether or not they should go look for Uncle Mitch—which Shiro doesn’t think he’d _mind_ , but it feels somewhat unnecessary. At least, it does right now, this very second.

“I’m not… This isn’t a panic attack or anything,” Shiro mutters, tapping his thumb on the bench because his hands and arms will not stop shaking. “I just… I can’t believe I did that? I’ve never even—not in _practice_ —so how did I—”

“Question it later, darling. When you’ve calmed down some.” Knotting his brow in concern but trying to smile anyway, Lotor hands over Shiro’s water bottle. In the locker room’s graveyard silence, one of the sinks sounds like a waterfall as Lotor tucks a loose bit of hair behind Shiro’s ear. “Whatever comes of this program, you _do_ realize that you will have earned it, right?”

Despite the doubts clamoring for his attention like a clutter of starving cats, Shiro nods. “I worked hard. Put effort and love into what I skated tonight. And I _can_ land a quad lutz. Probably the quad flip, too. I proved that just now, because this _wasn’t_ an accident. Or I’m not gonna let it be one, anyway.”

It all sounds hollow, at the moment. But the positive self-talk that Shiro’s therapist back home has him do always rings a bit off-key, when Shiro starts a round of it. Only way to handle feeling like he’s faking everything is simply pressing through, showering himself in these reminders as often as his anxiety tries to trip him up. For now, it also when Adam rejoins him and Lotor. The towel he’s dampened is cool on Shiro’s forehead, cheeks, and neck, and wiping off the sweat gets Shiro’s breathing to somewhat even out.

Not by much. He could stand to get through inhaling and exhaling without his lungs fluttering like a drunk butterfly. Whatever, though. As long as he’s steady enough to skate in the closing group choreography, then Shiro should be fine.

“Quad lutz or no quad lutz, you put on a great show, Starlight.” Sitting beside him, Adam rubs Shiro’s shoulder as if terrified of shattering him. “You _deserve_ to have this program blow up. It wouldn’t surprise me if George Michael himself noticed.”

 _God, I hope not_ , Shiro muses. _Don’t joke like that, Sunshine. I would die—just absolutely_ ** _die_** _—if St. George saw my program and he didn’t like it_.

He almost lets himself say as much—but looking at Adam means catching a glimpse of the silver _magen David_ pendant hanging around his neck. That charm from his grandmother means as much to Adam as Mom and Dad’s rings do to Shiro. Cultural and religious significance, rather than personal, yes, and given the Christian part of his own upbringing, Shiro would only _need_ to be bound by Catholic understandings of, _“Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.”_

Still, following Adam’s very Jewish understanding of that commandment is a matter of respecting someone Shiro cares about. He’d prefer to do it for anybody, and especially for one of the only people on the planet who really likes him.

With a sigh, Shiro settles on, “I guess it’s possible, yeah? But I don’t think it’s that likely to happen, Sunshine.”

“I’m just saying: you never know.” When this doesn’t make Shiro smile or sigh in relief, Adam frowns and his shoulders droop. “Are we actually helping, Takashi? Or do you need some time by yourself? Or… something else?”

Two long sips from his bottle don’t make Shiro feel certain of his answer, but he gives anyway.

Thankfully, Adam and Lotor don’t need to be told twice. Lotor only lingers on their way out to pat Shiro on the shoulder and confirm that Shiro should take as much time to relax as he needs, and he can come find the other two members of Team Over The Top whenever he once again feels up to being around more people. Nothing is wrong with taking a few moments for himself, and no one can hold it against him, not least after such a magnificent performance. So, when Shiro has sufficiently steadied himself, Adam and Lotor will be waiting for him around the TVs with the other champions.

“And if you stay here too long,” Lotor adds, looking back with a small, fond smile, “then one of us shall simply come fetch you.”

As soon as they’ve gone, Shiro closes his eyes and pulls out his silver chain necklace. In silence, he fumbles with his late parents’ wedding rings, not the _only_ things he has left of theirs, but some of the few things he can easily carry around to competitions. Unlike photo albums and Uncle Mitch’s stories, Shiro can wear the necklace while he skates and always keep this little piece of his Mom and Dad with him.

He doesn’t know how long he sits here, alternately drinking his water and twirling the rings around his index finger. When someone else slips into the locker room, though, Shiro mostly tunes it out. From the sound of their footfalls, they aren’t wearing skates, so they can’t be another champion who might want to talk about jumps and base values and other important things that Shiro has no mental room for, right now. Then, the newcomer doesn’t immediately dart toward Shiro, so they probably aren’t a fan. Even when they pad in his direction, they advance slowly, and maybe they’re in here looking for something else. Or for someone else. Maybe they won’t—

“Why didn’t you do that in the competition?”

Shiro’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t startle that much. Looking in the direction of the voice, he spots someone a few meters away, down at the end of this aisle, halfway hidden behind a corner. Whoever they are, they peer at Shiro through messy black bangs, zeroing in on him with those wide, owlish, glittering eyes, as if they’ve found something precious after searching around the globe for years. Not that they seem old enough to have gone on such a quest, but they certainly look like the sort of person who _would_ do a thing like that.

“I…” Shiro sighs, pushing some loose fringe off of his face. “I’m sorry, are you lost?”

“Are you Takashi Shirogane?” A nod makes them break out in a grin. “Then I’m not lost.”

Vaguely, it occurs to Shiro that this would probably sound creepy if that smile didn’t seem so earnestly excited.

Although Shiro hasn’t invited them over, they scamper directly to his side. Up close, three things jump out at him: first, this person must be a kid, because no one _but_ a kid would be this bold, and after his most recent growth spurt, Shiro doesn’t think the top of their head could hit his collarbone. Second, under a red jacket, they’re wearing a black t-shirt with the cover of Gorillaz’ _Demon Days_ album printed on the chest; Shiro would appreciate their taste in music if their shirt’s collar didn’t gape so much, and if it didn’t seem like they have more fabric to go around than torso.

Third, the saucer eyes blinking at him look purple. Maybe they’re just a particularly rich shade of blue, but as the kid shakes their bangs off their forehead, they give Shiro a good look—and no, no, those irises _definitely_ have too much violet to call them blue.

Holding out a hand, the kid says, “I’m Keith. Um, Keith Kogane.”

“Well, you already know my name. But you can call me, ‘Shiro.’” He puts on a polite smile as he scoots down the bench, giving Keith some room to sit with him. This Keith kid seems okay, and if he turns out not to be, then Shiro’s probably helping whatever adults are looking for him by keeping Keith in one place. “Are—I guess you were looking for me?”

“Not specifically, but then I saw you and…” Keith shrugs, continuing to look up at Shiro. “So, why didn’t you do that jump in the actual competition? You totally would’ve beaten Weir and Lambiel with a quad lutz like you just did out there.”

The more he talks, the more _something_ about this kid nags at Shiro like a splinter in his thumb. He can’t put his finger on what, exactly, sets him off—maybe the way Keith talks, or maybe it’s about his posture, or maybe it has to do with those big, sparkling eyes—but _something_ about Keith begs Shiro to recognize him, because their paths might have crossed before.

Furthermore, the more Keith talks, the more his accent stands out and the more Shiro wonders where it’s from. It’s… kind of similar to Lotor’s? But not _entirely_ like his? Then again, Lotor’s accent is almost singularly unique; only his twin brother, Sincline, remotely matches him, and Sincline’s accent sounds very little like Keith’s.

Not that either of the Cizar twins _asked_ to have such distinctive ways of speaking. Until their Mother left their Father early last year, Lotor split his time between Raimon, Brodar, and Melainburg, the capital cities of Altea, Daibazaal, and Marmora. Even after the divorce, he alternates between Honerva’s home in Raimon and living with his old _au pair_ in Melainburg, where his coach, Thace, lives and trains with him. Either way, wherever they stay, peers and teachers alike disregard Lotor and Sincline’s status as the Princes of Daibazaal, and mock them for sounding either too Galra or too Altean, respectively—which could make anyone’s accent hard to place, if you ask Shiro. 

Maybe Keith has parents in the military, or working as ambassadors? That would move him around enough to muddy his accent.

Asking would probably be rude, though, so Shiro tells him, “It was only supposed to be a triple lutz? I didn’t know—I mean, I’ve never landed a quad lutz in practice before, so…” Arching a brow down at the most witheringly skeptical frown he has ever seen, Shiro holds up his right wrist. He flicks it _just so_ , wincing as he makes his bones and ligaments crack. “I skated at Worlds with a broken wrist last year—”

“Is that why you only got fifth?” Keith’s cheeks twinge pink as he mumbles an apology for cutting Shiro off. “I just.… I was _at_ Worlds last year. Your ‘Danse Macabre’ free skate was _gorgeous_ , okay? It was living art. You were like a _vorókehen_ come to life.”

“The, uh.…” Shiro furrows his brow. “ _Vorókehen_ as in the death-birds from Galra folklore?”

“They’re called _vorókehenna_ when they go in groups.” Regardless, Keith lights up with a grin and nods. “My Mom used to tell me and my cousin stories about them when we were little. And my Kolivan? He’s writing a book about them—like, about the history of them? My Dad and my Antok have been reading the chapters for him, because Mom does most of the business for our hot springs? And they say I can read the book when I’m older, but…”

Shiro may not understand several of the ostensibly crucial words that Keith just used, but teenage groaning and rolled eyes make perfect sense. _Note to self: later tonight, ask Lotor what “Kolivan” and “Antok” mean._

“I love the _vorókehenna_ , though,” Keith keeps telling him, rocking back and forth on the bench, visibly struggling not to bounce too much. “Like the _nebevranni_ , the ravens of Heaven, they’re bird-people. But the _vorókehenna_ are part-human and part-crow, either golden-skinned or ashen like a ghost, and their black wings have poison feathers. So devastatingly beautiful, it leaves people ruined, but they’re also deadly and dangerous. My Kolivan says that before Christianity happened, Galra called them down on enemies with magic, and our old gods sent them to punish bad people. The _vorókehenna_ can’t be bound like that forever, though. So many stories have idiots crossing them and getting dragged to the Netherworld.”

For all Shiro doesn’t entirely follow what Keith’s saying—in all likelihood, these myths will make more sense if Shiro reads about them later—he nods along. He _is_ paying attention, and Keith deserves to feel listened to while he’s going on about something that clearly matters so much to him. After all, it costs Shiro nothing to be polite and kind.

He expects more stories, but Keith pauses to shake his head. He huffs, then peers earnestly up at Shiro. “So, you really looked like the _vorókehenna_ are supposed to look in that program. Beautiful, but dangerous. Like you could’ve stolen someone’s soul and they would’ve thanked you for it. You were, like? The way you moved was like magic. Your step sequence, I couldn’t breathe during that, because it was so eerie, and graceful, and it sucked me in? And then your costume, with the sharp angles, and those pieces like broken glass, and the way you used everything in your choreography? And—and, and—I mean?”

Shiro’s cheeks flush so hot, it’s a wonder he doesn’t start sweating again.

As if sensing that he’s going a bit too hard with the praise, Keith hunches his shoulders. “I only mean to say? Like, Lambiel getting gold was fine, he was really good too. But _you_ should’ve been on the podium with him and Johnny Weir, not that creepy Canadian.”

“Apparently, Jeff Buttle’s a pretty nice guy, I guess?”

“I don’t know him for real, but his smile always creeps me out.”

“I don’t really know him, either. I trust Adam’s read on him, though, since they’re both on Team Canada, but?” Making a sound like the vocal equivalent of a shrug, Shiro lets himself match Keith in slouching. No one’s around to judge him for it, so why not? “Anyway, there were other factors that kept me off the podium at Worlds last year. Not just technical elements or a broken wrist, either. My nerves got to me. I worked myself up in the wrong ways. Anxiety gave me Hell and it affected my performance.”

Tilting his head, Keith blinks at Shiro—but it’s like he’s not really blinking _at_ Shiro. Those big, blue-violet eyes get a far-off, pensive look, and his breaths slow down without seeming too deep. Whatever he’s latching onto from what Shiro said, Keith wants to ponder it, give it thought.

Shiro has an explanation to finish, though, and he cracks his wrist again. “I wouldn’t have had the broken wrist if I hadn’t pushed myself so hard with my quads. I could’ve worked harder on fine-tuning my quad salchow and quad toe loop, instead of trying to make myself land the loop, flip, and lutz when—”

“You can’t break your wrist by jumping.”

“You _can_ break it by falling, though.” This makes Keith squint, almost uncomprehendingly, and Shiro tries to play it casual when he shrugs. “I was trying to do a quad lutz in practice. But I took off wrong—going too fast, and then I kicked off too hard, and I lost control of everything—and when I fell… Well?”

Miming what he means, Shiro leans toward the floor and holds out his right arm.

“ _Ohhh_. Okay,” Keith says, as realization dawns on him. “So, you crashed too hard and caught yourself wrong? And that kind of impact…” He mimics Shiro’s posture, hunched over the locker room’s tiles with his right hand extended. Inhaling sharply, Keith cringes like he can imagine how this might feel, but wishes that he couldn’t. “Wow, uh. And I thought it was bad that Thace won’t let me try quads yet.”

“Yeah, he has the right idea. You need to build up to quads, it…” As recognition creeps up on him, Shiro frowns. “Wait, _Thace_? Like, the coach, Thace? The one who works with Lotor?”

“He works with me, too. And, er…” Keith ducks his chin and tries to hide in his floppy hair. “He’s my uncle, my Mom’s brother.”

“Oh, _that’s_ where I’ve seen you before!” Shiro lets the words slip out of him before he realizes that his lips are moving. As his brain catches up to his mouth, he starts to apologize—but then, those words die on his tongue, all from the way Keith’s looking at him.

Which, in all likelihood, shouldn’t take Shiro by surprise or knock him off his guard. People have stared at him in awe and wonder before, so he shouldn’t lose any composure from seeing Keith’s expression soften until it seems like he might cry, or from how he swallows thickly, peering up at Shiro as if he can’t believe that he’s awake and actually taking part in this conversation. Yet, Shiro’s hitches as Keith’s eyes widen, glistening with a threat to tear up, even though Keith’s mouth blooms into a trembling smile. His lips could just about snap in half, there’s so much nervous energy in his face.

If he were only gawking at Shiro like he’s too good to be true—like he’s a god on earth because of how he skates—then that’d be one thing and Shiro would have a better idea of how to handle it. Instead, Keith stares at Shiro as if he’s treating Keith in a way that no one else does, just by being nice to him.

“I… You’ve been at the rink, right? The Zamirka Ledoun, in Melainburg?” Shiro makes himself smile back, trying to banish that depressing thought from his mind and hopefully reassuring Keith somewhat. When Keith gives him a cautious nod, Shiro adds, “You skate too, don’t you?”

“With the novices,” Keith mutters, cheeks paling. “I‘m not that good? I’m making my junior debut next season, but the rest of my family lives in Thaldycon. We have a rink there too, so I still get to practice? But I only get time with Thace and Ulaz when Mom lets me go see them. Then, I have to make sure Thace isn’t at a competition. Ulaz teaches ballet better than they do at the studio in Thaldycon, but he’s not the same, and taking the train out to see them when Thace isn’t even home? It’s like…”

Although he keeps listening as Keith babbles at him, Shiro can’t shake the mental image of short, skinny Keith, bundled up in a winter coat that’s bigger than he is, lugging a duffle bag of skating gear around Lézneva Station in Melainburg, glaring at anyone who dares to treat him like a little kid and huffily informing people that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Ducking his chin, Keith tries to hide in his bangs. “I can’t—when I try to skate like—not like _you_ , I mean, _nobody_ skates like you—and it’s not really—”

An abrupt groan cuts off those whirling thoughts. Then, Keith grumbles a string of words that, vaguely, Shiro recognizes as some of the Galran cussing he’s heard out of Lotor.

Even without recalling exactly what those curses mean, Shiro frowns. He can’t let this go, can’t sit here and do nothing while Keith’s (ostensibly) ripping himself to shreds. So, Shiro doesn’t give himself time to think better of anything. Angling himself more toward Keith, he curls his hand around a skinny shoulder and gives Keith a gentle squeeze. That makes him fall silent, and for a brief moment, Shiro fears that he’s broken Keith. He keeps his breaths deep and slow, though. He tells himself that nothing here is doomed, and he focuses on maintaining his soft smile for as long as necessary. From the sound of it, Keith desperately needs some kindness.

It takes Keith a few moments to get bored with searching for a hidden picture in the tile floor. But with quivering arms and tears teasing like they might spill over but can’t make up their minds, he finally looks Shiro in the eye.

“You’re just getting started, Keith,” he says softly, gripping Keith’s shoulder. “You can’t get too down on yourself, or expect yourself to skate like people who’ve already been working on it for longer—”

“I mess everything up, though!” Color returns to Keith’s cheeks with a vengeance, flushing him candy apple red. “All I do is try my best, and then try harder, but my step sequences suck, and then I can’t even jump right anymore, and it feels like—”

“Hey, Keith? Breathe with me. Please?” Shiro takes a few more deep breaths, going so slowly with them that his lungs scream at him to just get on with it. Still, he drags through the motions— _in and out,_ ** _in_** _… and out,_ ** _in_** _…… and then out_ —trying to get Keith to follow along.

For all he does, and for all he seems to calm down, Keith also gives Shiro a bemused glare, silently demanding to know what the point of that was supposed to be.

“When I say you can’t get down on yourself? That includes everything you’re saying. Because you are only getting started on the ice.” This doesn’t clear up Keith’s stormy frown, but Shiro can’t let that deter him, not when Keith deserves to hear a talk like this from _someone_. “All the hard work you’re doing? It might not seem to be paying off, yet. But it will, okay?”

“Like you working on the quad lutz?”

“Yes, exactly like that. I didn’t think I was getting anywhere, but I kept working on it, kept learning from my mistakes—” 

“But what if I—I’m not like you, Shiro? What if I never get better?”

“You will, though. Putting in the work and trying new things will help make you better. Yes, it’s going to be difficult. It’s a process and it’s going to be frustrating. But it’s like my grandfather always tells me: _‘Patience yields focus.’_ ” Under Keith’s scrutinizing squint, Shiro has to force himself not to wilt. “I know it sounds silly, but it’s true, Keith. You can _do this_ —”

“Have you ever _watched_ me on the ice before? Any of the times you’ve been at the Zamirka with Lotor?” Slowly, Shiro shakes his head, which in turn makes Keith set his jaw and pout. “You don’t even know me. You don’t even know how I skate.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Shiro acquiesces, because it’s true. He won’t help Keith any by giving him some empty platitudes and a condescending, vacuous pep-talk. “From the way you talk about it, though? I can tell how much your skating means to you—”

“So what? Just because it matters doesn’t mean I’m good at it.”

“You can’t buy passion like you’ve got, Keith. Nobody can keep it down for long, either. If you keep working hard, finding all the things you want to fix, I know you’ll go far.”

Hunching his shoulders, Keith fights—and fails—to rein his expression into something vaguely neutral. “What if nobody even cares, though? What if I leave home, and move to Melainburg with Thace and Ulaz, and it doesn’t make a difference because _nobody cares_?”

“ _I’ll_ care,” Shiro promises. “More people will care than you realize, and I’ll be one of them.” The awkward angle makes something twinge in Shiro’s back, but he meets Keith’s gaze again because he needs to look Keith in the eye. “I will _never_ give up on you. But you can’t get by on that alone. More importantly, you can never give up on yourself.”

A protest dies off before Keith even gets out a full syllable. He gapes at Shiro, wrinkling his nose as if Shiro just lectured him on the health benefits of skinny-dipping in Siberia. Closing his mouth and breathing deeply don’t seem to help Keith get his mind around the idea that Shiro means this promise and everything that comes with it. Or maybe he’s trying to puzzle out an argument, find any of the points that Shiro’s missed and string them together into a rebuttal. Maybe he’s scared that he could screw up and hurt Shiro’s feelings without tailoring his response.

Whatever’s on Keith’s mind, he decides to return Shiro’s smile. Determination flares up behind his eyes, burning so hot and bright that the air around Keith seems to crackle with life, with promise. But as Keith finally starts to say something—

“ _Keith Yorak Kogane!_ ”

Cringing, Keith groans. As the sound echoes off the walls, he drops into a slouch, like a marionette whose had their strings cut. Heavy footsteps thunder toward them, and in a flash, Shiro finds himself blinking up at broad-shouldered, thick-necked Thace. Folding hairy arms over his solid chest, Thace narrows his eyes at the back of Keith’s head. As he scowls, even his fluffy sideburns quiver with emotion, probably anger and exasperation—but Shiro could swear he licks up a few notes of fear.

“Tell me, nephew: what did we agree on when I allowed you to come here,” Thace says, blatantly not asking Keith a question. “Did you or did you not promise me that you would not go off on your own while we are in—”

“I didn’t _go off_ on my own—”

“I asked you to sit and wait for me while I spoke with Lotor—”

“But I only went back here, not like—”

“Then, when he and I finished our discussion, I looked for you—”

“Oh, come  _on_! It’s not like I hopped a train to fucking _Paris—_ ”

“—and you were nowhere that I could see. After your mother, father, and Kolivan allowed you to take off school and trusted me to—”

“You found me though, didn’t you?” Rolling his eyes, Keith sneers at the floor. “I didn’t get in any trouble, so why is it such a big _deal_?”

Dragging himself through a deep breath, Thace drums his fingertips along his elbow. His silence aches and seems to say, _“I have no idea why all the gods have decided to test me in this manner; I only know that they have done so.”_ In all likelihood, it should mean a great deal. If nothing else, Thace likely intends for Keith to feel guilty for sneaking off and giving his uncle such a fright—but instead, Keith glowers like a kitten being subjected to unwanted bath-time, fussing with his sweatshirt’s cuffs as if he’s counting down the minutes until something impossibly tedious gets over with already.

“You are thirteen years old and visiting Italy for the first time, _nevrusim_ ,” Thace tells him, each syllable sharp and straining. “Your parents entrusted me with your welfare. They are depending on me to protect the person whom they love most in this world—”

“I’m not running away, Thace! I’m not creeping around Torino on my own! I’m not  _doing shots_ and getting _wasted_ with the Canadian hockey team, even though I’m underage! Which is way more than you can say for—”

“Lotor and I have already discussed that, as Sanda and the Wests have taken the issue up with Adam.” Something gentler flashes across Thace’s face as he looks to Shiro. Something almost apologetic. But before Shiro can get his head around it, Thace snaps back to narrowing his eyes at Keith. “Furthermore, they are both _seven_ teen, rather than—”

“All I did was go for a walk, okay—”

“A walk that, coincidentally, ended with you bothering one of these Games’ champions?”

“Oh, hey, no, it wasn’t like that?” Forcing himself to look Thace directly in his hard, blue eyes, Shiro holds up both hands in preemptive surrender. “Keith found me in here by accident, Thace. He seemed nice, and I didn’t want him to go wandering around alone, so I invited him to sit. He wanted to talk about skating—”

“Yeah, see?” Keith’s victorious smirk almost makes Shiro snicker. Thankfully, he jerks around to face his uncle before Shiro can dig them both into an even deeper hole. “I only wanted to ask about the quad lutz he did in his program. That’s all we were doing: _talking_.”

Thace considers this with the air of a man who wishes he could argue without appealing to parentally-given authority. “If you’ve finished talking, then perhaps we should return to our seats and give Shiro some space.” Casting Shiro a glance that begs him not to join Keith in any quibbling, Thace adds, “After all, he still has the Gala’s closing choreography. He ought to prepare himself for that.”

Despite the whiny, grousing sound that Keith lets slip, he supposes that he sees his uncle’s point. As they head toward the exit, Shiro calls after him, “Remember what I told you, Keith! Patience yields focus. Keep working hard, ‘cause I can’t wait to share the ice with you, some day.”

By way of letting Shiro know he heard him, Keith looks back with a small smile and waves. Watching him, something warm and hopeful sparks up in Shiro’s chest. He can already tell: juniors are going to be exciting, next season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone keeping track of how the VLD characters line up with the YOI characters in this fusion, here’s a convenient list:
> 
>   * Shiro is Victor and Keith is Yuuri, to the surprise of no one.  
> 
>   * Lotor and Adam are both Christophe Giacometti, in different ways, though Adam also has a few shades of JJ (—albeit mostly in that they are both Canadian). This, to me, is a massive privilege because Chris is my YOI Fave.  
> 
>   * James is Yurio, though also with a few shades of JJ (but again, it’s more on him being Canadian than anything else, because nobody in VLD really lines up that well with my read on JJ).  
> 
>   * Kinkade is Otabek, though he also has canon!Yurio and Georgi’s thing of being Shiro’s teammate and sharing a coach.  
> 
>   * Lance is Phichit, the King of Instagram (though not in this chapter specifically, because Lance is 13 and Instagram hadn’t been invented yet in 2006).  
> 
>   * Iverson is Yakov, and also Shiro’s godfather, and he deserves absolutely none of his godson’s shenanigans.  
> 
>   * Thace is Celestino, in that he is Keith’s coach before Shiro swoops in to do the job instead, but Coran is also Celestino, in that he is Lance’s coach and, in terms of his temperament, has more in common with Ciao-Ciao than Thace does.  
> 
>   * Ulaz is Minako, because this idea amused me.  
> 
>   * Pidge and Matt are vaguely Yuuko and Nishigori, at least in that they are Keith’s childhood friends who work at the old ice rink in Thaldycon. They’re dating Nyma and Rolo, respectively, who are essentially what we have instead of the triplets.  
> 
>   * Krolia and ~~Tex~~ Heath are Hiroko and Toshiya, as could be expected.  
> 
>   * Regris is effectively Mari, save that he and Keith call each other cousins, rather than brothers, because this is significantly less complicated than explaining that Regris is Antok’s nephew, who got adopted as a son after his parents died, and Antok is officially married to Kolivan, but the two of them are in a polyamorous quadrangle with Krolia and Heath.  
> 
>   * Kosmo is both Vicchan and Makkachin because I didn’t have it in me to kill him, so the only dog Shiro “had” before meeting The Goodest Boy was Old Sally, who is actually Iverson’s dog.  
> 
>   * And Hunk, Romelle, Allura, Kolivan, Antok, Sendak, Shiro’s blood family members, Iverson’s husband Bennett, and Lotor’s twin brother Sincline don’t really have YOI canon analogues; I just know where they are in this AU because I enjoy them. Also, because Sendak generates drama.
> 

> 
> * * *
> 
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Personal reactions/interpretations
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
>   * Comments made with the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta).
> 

> 
> The author reads and appreciates all comments, and gets back to all of them eventually, but may be slow to reply due to trying to rein in the ADHD/anxiety cocktail.
> 
> If, for any reason, you don’t want to receive a reply, just put, “whisper” near the start of your comment, and I’ll appreciate it without replying.


	2. Vancouver, 2010.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ……Honestly, the biggest note this chapter needs? Is probably something either: a. the minor/background Adam/Lotor/Shiro is strongest in this chapter, even though the main focus remains on the developing Sheith, and b. I’m pretty blatantly ignoring the International Skating Union’s notions about how long exhibition galas should go on, because I had a lot of people I wanted to include (both fictional characters and IRL skaters, e.g., Johnny Weir won bronze in this reality and got to do his “Poker Face” program, while Stéphane Lambiel didn’t place high enough, but was invited to skate his “Ne me quitte pas” anyway).

Backstage at Vancouver’s Pacific Coliseum, Shiro tells himself to just keep breathing.

Easier said than done, especially since earning a gold medal means that he closes tonight’s Champions Gala and won’t skate his program for nearly two-and-a-half hours, but still: it could be worse. He could, for instance, have no methods whatsoever for steadying himself. Quietly humming George Michael’s “Faith,” Shiro goes through the stretches that most often calm him down in addition to keeping him warmed up and limber.

He’s pulling himself into his second half-Biellmann—leaning forward, back arched, holding his bent right leg behind his—when he glances at the chairs along the back wall. Most of them remain unoccupied, as most of tonight’s stars are on their feet, double-checking costumes and makeup if they aren’t stretching like Shiro is, and he doesn’t see any of their coaches. However, one seat near the corner draws Shiro’s eye. More specifically, Shiro can’t let himself ignore the boy sitting in it.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark brown skin that’s nigh unnaturally clear, Ryan Kinkade stands out from the other skaters by virtue of _not_ wearing a performance outfit. Even if he were dressed up for the event, he’d distinguish himself with his high cheekbones and pouty lips. As it stands, though, the collar of his crisp, black button-up doesn’t remotely touch his neck, while his black jeans seem to have more denim than Ryan has thigh. Working a knot of tension in his back, Shiro winces, and he can’t say whether it’s from that twinge of necessary pain, or from recognizing in Ryan the lanky, stretched-out look of a recent growth-spurt.

Unfortunately, Shiro also recognizes the crestfallen, downcast look of someone who didn’t meet their own expectations for themself. Worse yet, Ryan’s only been sixteen since last June. His mom came with him to the Games, but she’s out in the arena with the rest of the audience—so, all up, it’s time for Shiro to be a teammate. Taking the seat to Ryan’s right, Shiro smiles gently, but Ryan can’t make himself look up from the carpet. His expression almost seems like the usual faces he makes, but that impression gets thrown off by the way he hugs himself, hunching in like he wishes he could disappear.

“If I ask whether or not you’re okay, will that feel condescending?” Shiro sighs when all Ryan gives him is a shrug. “D’you want me to call Mitch? He might be able to swing getting you a seat out there.”

“Being out with the fans and commentators is a nightmare, right now. Yeah, most of them are nice, but with some of them?” Shaking his head, Ryan slumps back in his seat. The way he stares at the ceiling… might be progress? Not much, if it is, but Shiro can’t tell one way or the other. “It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Except it’s not really a shoe? It’s any reminder that I set _two_ new personal bests, and it still wasn’t good enough.”

“Just because you didn’t place high enough for the Champions’ Gala? Doesn’t mean what you did wasn’t good enough.”

“Except for how, if it were good enough, I’d be skating tonight.”

“Mmm, see, now, I don’t think I can say anything without sounding… Well, patronizing. At the very least.”

“Yeah, the whole, ‘Everyone’s special, unique, and valid, who cares about winning, it’s about how you play the game and challenge yourself, athletically and artistically’ speech? Does lose a little of its impact when it’s coming from an Olympic gold-medalist.” Ryan huffs, almost smiling as he finally looks at Shiro. “Even when that medalist means what he’s saying because he’s like a figure skating puppy who wants the best for everyone.”

Cheeks flushing warm, Shiro quirks his shoulders. “I realize, yeah. But for what it’s worth? I _also_ know that this is only one competition—”

“Is it really gonna get better for me, though? On the competition circuit, I mean.”

“You’ve already grown so much as a skater since your senior debut, Ryan—and that was only last season. You’re always trying new techniques and choreography, doing things that nobody else is doing—”

“But maybe that’s part of the _problem_?” Groaning softly, Ryan curls one leg to his chest and hugs his shin. “Level with me, Shiro: you took ballet. Johnny took ballet. Lotor, Lambiel, Kogane, and West all took ballet. How much is it gonna screw me over if I _don’t_ go back and start doing ballet?”

“Well, I don’t think Takahashi’s taken ballet before, so that’s not…” On the receiving end of a searing glare, Shiro trails off without finishing that thought. Absentmindedly, he reaches up—but fortunately, he catches himself before he can ruffle up his hair. After all the work that went into coiffing it _just right_ , Shiro can’t mess that up. “I don’t think I know where to start answering that question.”

Still, the question clearly matters to Ryan and Shiro doesn’t go back on the ice until after the intermission. With a soft sigh, Shiro mulls it over, then tells his teammate, “Considering how prevalent ballet is in figure skating, both in terms of our popular moves and techniques, and in terms of what people come to expect because so many of us do it? Yeah, people will likely hold it over your head if you don’t learn ballet—”

“ _God_ ,” Ryan mutters, cringing. “I only quit because I couldn’t get into ballet. And it’s so stupid, expecting everyone to skate the same—”

“Yes, exactly—and that’s why you _can’t_ give up on doing things your own way.” This earns Shiro a bemused expression, and he only hopes that his smile helps. “Just because you quit ballet doesn’t mean that you haven’t put effort into your art. It doesn’t mean that you don’t know how to skate, or that your skating is less valid than anyone else’s. Ballet _isn’t_ for everyone, and you know how to dance in ways that most of us don’t. You just need to keep working at it, skating _your_ truth in the way that _you_ love. Sooner or later, I _know_ that the world will catch up with you.”

Ryan considers that little speech for a long moment before he nods. “Y’know, it’s really hard to argue with you when you believe in everyone so much.”

“I’m telling the truth how I see it. Plus, it’s rare to see someone with work ethic like yours.” Gently, Shiro nudges his shoulder at Ryan’s. “So, Vancouver didn’t work out how you wanted. But if you keep putting yourself into what you do, then it’s not the end for you, not by any means.”

“I won’t let it be the end. Still…” Huffing, he props his chin on his knee. “I did so much to make the choreography work, I just I wish I were doing my ‘Umbrella’ program tonight.”

 _I wish people hadn’t pushed me so hard away from doing my “Faith” program_ , Shiro doesn’t say, because the situations are, admittedly, very different. Regardless of how much he dislikes several popular opinions about him and what kind of person he is, Shiro _chose_ to change his exhibition program, rather than being denied a chance to skate at all, like Ryan.

Curling a hand around his teammate’s shoulder, Shiro says, “You’ll get there, okay? ‘Careless Whisper’ is my favorite song, probably George Michael’s best known song, too. I almost did it in Torino—”

“Mitch said you tried to talk him into letting you do some song about having sex outside—”

“I did, but him telling me, ‘No, let’s talk about it again in a few years’ was why I ever got hung up on, ‘Do I want to do “Careless Whisper” or “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go,” because they’re both good options, so really…’” This gets an amused snort out of Ryan, which in turn makes Shiro’s smile come a bit more genuinely. “Either way, no matter how much I like the choreography for the ‘Careless Whisper’ program? Something still doesn’t feel right.”

“I felt like the time _was_ right for my ‘Umbrella’ program, though.” Ryan’s eyes don’t quite mist over, but their plaintive gleam kicks Shiro square in the emotional teeth. “I love what I’ve worked out for the choreography. I thought I was really feeling the music, I just.… It felt like the perfect time—and _Mitch_ didn’t tell me, ‘No’? But the _universe_ sure did”

“So, keep working on it.” Shiro gives Ryan’s shoulder a squeeze that he prays comes off as reassuring. “Keep putting your heart and soul into that program, the way you’ve already done. Change it if and when you want, take breaks when you want, and don’t compromise on using it to showcase _your_ truth. That way, you’ll make it so good that, when you finally _do_ get to skate it, everyone watching can’t believe you kept something so beautiful in your back-pocket for so long.”

Without hesitation, Ryan smiles back at Shiro, finally looks like he believes anything he’s heard so far. His eyes still gleam, but with a renewed sense of purpose. If real life worked like the movies, then this is where the soft, melancholy strings would swell to an uplifting conclusion. Now, the time is exactly right for Ryan to make some witty, heartfelt remark about how he’s renewed his belief in himself and he’s even more committed to skating in his own way, rather than following everyone else and holding himself back as an artist.

Instead, Ryan wrinkles his nose and lets out a low whistle. “Any bets on what kind of truth Kogane’s trying to showcase, or…?”

Based on the little red and black cowboy-looking outfit Keith wore during the opening group choreography, Shiro would guess that whatever truth he has in mind, his program involves American country music. Probably Dolly Parton—Keith’s fond of her, if Shiro recalls correctly.

When Ryan points where he’s looking, though, Shiro’s mouth falls open and his eyes could pop out of his skull. At some point between the performances from Dubé and Davison, Patrick Chan, Laura Lepistö, Delobel and Schoenfelder, Pang and Tong, Miki Ando, Takahashi, and the local youth ice dancers who kicked things off, Keith’s found time to redo his makeup. Before, he didn’t seem to be wearing any; now, though, he’s painted on intense wings of eyeliner and smudged himself up with clouds of glittery black shadow. If he’s trying to look beautiful but deadly, then he’s succeeded perfectly.

If anything, Keith’s changed his costume even more drastically. The black pants almost look the same as the ones he had on before, save how this new pair hugs Keith’s long legs, leaving little to the imagination. Gone is the fitted-but-not-too-tight, short-sleeved red top with the fake buttons, replaced by a shiny, skin-tight black number. The overhead fluorescent lights glisten on a black underbust corset that distinctly looks like latex and a pair of fingerless black opera gloves that look like someone painted them directly on Keith’s skin.

For the pièce de résistance, Keith’s strapped a decorative epaulet to his shoulder. Gold chains cascade down from the studs along its edges, like a cloak dusting around his bicep. Drawing even more attention, golden spikes stick out from the piece at all angles, and it’s likely a miracle that Keith doesn’t stab himself in the neck with one.

“Seriously,” Ryan mutters, “is he…? I don’t even know if I should ask if he’s okay? Like, maybe he’s just—maybe he only wants to skate, like—I don’t even _know_ what he thinks he’s doing?”

“Neither do I,” Shiro admits, getting to his feet. “I can certainly find out, though.”

In theory, it’s a great idea. Yet, as Shiro approaches Keith, someone excessively tall swoops up behind him, curling long, spidery fingers around Keith’s biceps. Normally, Keith might startle and jerk away, but whoever this newcomer is, Keith slumps back toward their chest. Each deep breath seems like Keith’s forcing himself not to fall apart, and hovering here, off to the side, Shiro would swear he sees Keith’s arms trembling as he hugs himself. Shiro frowns at how tightly Keith grabs his elbow. Thanks to the ponytail tying his hair off his face, Shiro clearly spots the quiver in Keith’s lips and the way he grits his teeth.

The quasi-giant behind him sighs and leans down to kiss the top of Keith’s head. “Don’t worry about Thace, _nevrusim_ ,” they tell him, white-blond hair flopping over their sharp cheekbones. “If he wants to take issue with you skating in the gala with something that truly makes you happy, then he can discuss it with me.”

“Doing my ‘Jolene’ program could’ve made me happy, too.” Closing his eyes, Keith grumbles a string of words that sounds like mixed English and Galra, give or take a curse that might or might not be Russian. “Why’s he even think that Mom would kill him for letting me skate what I want? You sent her videos of me practicing this program, right?”

“Yes, well. Unfortunately, my husband has several notions about Krolia’s opinions that are other than correct.”

“How can he get things twisted so badly, though? She even said she’d get me pole-dancing lessons, if I ever wanted.”

Breath snagged in his throat, Shiro searches for anything on the ceiling that could possibly interest him.

Finding nothing, he slinks over to join Lotor and Adam at the TVs. Aside from how the conversation between Keith and his uncle should stay more or less private, Shiro _does not_ need to imagine Keith anywhere in the vicinity of pole-dancing. Whatever the gossip wants to call the relationship between Shiro, Lotor, and Adam since they started sleeping together—whatever the three of them feel about the nature of the bonds they share—they don’t have room for Shiro to think like that about a fellow competitor who only turned seventeen back in October.

Better for Shiro to sidle up behind his pair of best friends/“it’s complicated”s, and settle in to watch whatever’s left of Zhang and Zhang’s program. Anyway, Keith stomps off to get on-deck while Lotor’s groaning that the fifth-place pairs skaters from China move gracefully enough to justify their placement, but they don’t make him _feel_ anything, which is such a pity after how they’ve skated in previous seasons. Whatever Keith’s got up his sleeves for this program, they’ll find out soon enough.

  


* * *

  


“I am not _saying_ that they have no talent, Sunshine,” Lotor insists for about the eighth time since the last program ended. “Obviously, the Zhangs would not have made it to Vancouver if they did not have ample talent—”

“Okay, sure, I get it now. You aren’t saying they’re _talentless_ , only that they apparently can’t do the one thing that you prize above all other aspects of a program?” Arching an eyebrow, Adam shoots Lotor a Pointed Glance. Were he wearing his glasses, Adam would be staring over their rims. “Do you _honestly_ not see how that sounds like you don’t respect their talent? Or are you intentionally playing dumb to get me riled up.”

With a flip of his long cowlick, Lotor sticks out his tongue.

Meeting that _Truly_ _Stunning_ Maturity in its turn, Adam rolls his eyes. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, much less by swatting you anywhere.”

“Mmm, perhaps that’s for everyone’s benefit, though.” Purring, Lotor holds up his wrists. A switchblade smirk glimmers mischievously as a pair of magnets snap his longish, silver cuff bracelets together, making them resemble manacles. “I know what sort of magic you can work with your hands, darling. How do you know that I wouldn’t _enjoy_ earning one of your swats?”

“Do you really want to make me spank you in front of all these people, Kitten?”

“What if, perhaps, I do?”

True to his previous threat, Adam ignores both Lotor’s words and the way he leans in closer, puckering his lips. Inhaling deeply, Adam focuses on the TV screen, even when Lotor leans on his shoulder and sighs like not getting Adam’s immediate attention will literally kill me. Usually, this earns Lotor at least some manner of affection, regardless of whether or not they’re around other people. If not for Adam being such a stubborn bastard about Lotor’s opinion on Zhang Dan and Zhang Hao’s exhibition program, Shiro’s favorite weirdos might start making out.

Instead of giving Lotor what he wants, Adam reaches for his hair, but jerks his hand away without touching it. Good call—he’s skating right before the intermission, and Sanda might flip her lid on him for messing up his hair after how much effort, time, and product it took to get him primped. Sighing softly, Adam reaches for his face, next; he only skips poking his own nose because Shiro catches him by the wrist.

“Makeup, Sunshine,” he points out gently.

It takes a moment, but his meaning dawns on Adam and he cringes. “I can’t wait to wash all this itchy junk off.”

“As much as I appreciate your growing appreciation for showmanship? If the cosmetics bother you so viscerally,” Lotor drawls, “then perhaps you should not have asked me to paint you like David Bowie for this program.”

Considering that Adam’s skating his Gala program to a song called “Danger! High Voltage,” the makeup job makes sense. Exactly like Bowie had on the cover of his _Aladdin Sane_ album, a vibrant orange bolt of lightning jags down Adam’s forehead, his right eye and cheek, and the bridge of his nose, with little turquoise accents along the edge. Matching his paint, Adam wears a tight jumpsuit, all black, save for the orange lightning bolt cutting down his chest, from right shoulder to left hip.

Simmering in silence, Adam and Lotor could give everyone else backstage any number of shows. Arguing, snarking more playfully, making out—but as if on cue, the Emcee interrupts them before they can start, announcing the evening’s next performer: Romelle Loramue.

A member of Team Altea with Lotor and Allura de Raimon, Romelle took fifth-place in women’s singles at these Games. Rather than going for her usual messy bun or flowing ponytail, she has her long blonde hair tied up in pigtails with round buns, looking very much the part of Tsukino Usagi, Sailor Moon, albeit with a bit. Fittingly, she skates her bubbly, enthusiastic, crowd-thrilling program to “Makenai,” the opening song from the last season of Sailor Moon’s anime series.

Regardless of how well she skates, though, Shiro barely breathes until the emcee announces, _“Representing the Free Republic of Marmora, Keith Kogane.”_

As Keith takes his starting position, cocking one hip and bowing his head, Shiro still can’t puzzle out what that costume thinks it is. Keith could have anything in mind, with how tightly the outfit clings to his lithe torso and long legs.

But then, the music starts, familiar, rhythmic rustling sounds over a throbbing combination of bass and synthesizers, and Keith kicks off down the ice. How he builds up speed so quickly, Shiro can’t help but envy; it’s mere seconds before Adam Lambert’s vocals kick in. Right on the song’s first line, Keith springs into a flawless triple axel.

Shiro’s Adam whistles, low and impressed, but not loudly enough to interrupt anything. Maybe he has something to say about the way Keith slithers around the rink, writhing with his entire body, gliding into an Ina Bauer with an arched back and rockstar swagger—but Adam keeps it to himself. Coming up short on words makes sense, though. While the the chorus rages on the speakers— _“Oh! D’you know what you’ve got into? Can you handle what I’m ‘bout to do?”_ —everyone goes silent over Keith’s quad loop, triple loop combo.

After a perfect landing, Keith flings himself into skating backward, throwing one arm over his head, rolling out his hips and shoulders as if thrashing against a cage. He doesn’t move effortlessly—a few times, Shiro notices Keith glancing toward the ice, or looking up like he’s struggling to remember something—but Keith still performs more confidently than Shiro’s ever seen from him. Whenever the cameras get a good shot of his face, Keith twists his lips in a sneer that dares anyone to say anything about his program.

“Is it just me,” Lotor wonders, “or is he skating much better than he did in the competition proper?”

Shrugging, Adam shushes at Lotor—and good thing, too. Much as Shiro dislikes ignoring the two of them, he couldn’t stand to miss a second of Keith’s exhibition.

While ultimately subjective, Lotor’s point has merit: Keith skated well in the actual competition, but he didn’t give himself over to the choreography, the way he’s doing now. With each component he executes—each fluid, up-and-down, puppet master motion of his arms; each snap of his hips or pop of his backside into some new position; each jump whose landing immediately leads to more serpentine movements—Keith skates less and less like his coach’s and choreographer’s visions for him, more and more like _himself_.

That has to be what’s coming out in this program, and it makes Keith magnetic in ways that neither of his competition programs managed. As the song swells during its last chorus, building toward a conclusion, Shiro can’t spot any signs of Keith’s energy flagging. During his _Swan Lake_ free skate, exhaustion definitely caught up to him, visible in everything from his face to how hard he fought to keep his posture. Now, though, even with three perfect quads behind him—two loops and a flip—Keith looks like he could go run a marathon and win.

Finally, the big finish: the last notes of “For Your Entertainment” echo through the Pacific Arena as Keith flings himself to his knees. Arms splayed out like wings, legs spread _ever so suggestively_ , back arched, head thrown back, and face contorted _just so_ —Shiro’s cheeks flush scorching hot at everything about Keith, from that telltale expression on his face to the rise and fall of his chest and how he’s making those breaths seem labored.

“His step sequences still need work.” Lotor hums as the crowd breaks into thunderous applause. “I would hardly call them _sloppy_ , but—”

“Yeah, it looks like he didn’t get in as much practice as he wanted.” Adam reaches for his nose again, going to push up glasses that he isn’t wearing, but catches himself with a huff. “With a little polish and some edits on the length? He could turn that into a free program.”

“With that choice of music, darling? I doubt it, as enjoyable as that would be.” Leaning on Adam again, Lotor says, “If nothing else, that program should effectively silence your irksome teammate. Or get him to stop complaining about whether or not Keith can actually skate, at any rate, which would surely improve the universe for everyone.”

Cringing, Adam groans. “Dream on, Ballerina Barbie. Bet you anything, Griffin’s only gonna shut up about Keith if he, James, drops _dead_. Maybe if Keith deigns to fuck him into the bed, but even that’s a long-shot.”

“Who cares about _Griffin_?” Staring at the recap of highlights from Keith’s program, Shiro tries not to start physically vibrating from excitement. “Look, after that? We’ve gotta get Keith on Team Over The Top. Am I going crazy, or do we need to make friends and get him in our group, like, _yesterday_?”

For a moment that definitely lasts too long, Adam and Lotor trade glances that might very well know something Shiro doesn’t.

“Not to be rude or doubt your earnestness, Starlight,” Adam drawls, “but it sounds like you’ve already made up your mind?”

“Asking for our opinions does seem like a bit of a formality, though I appreciate you taking the time to do so.” Fortunately, getting pouted at makes Lotor sigh indulgently. “I would have no objections to befriending and including Keith in our motley coterie of uniquely endearing eccentrics.”

“It’s called a ‘ragtag bunch of misfits,’ Pretty Boy—”

“Perhaps to you, Sunshine. Because _you_ need to work on your panache and sense of flair—”

“So, can I go invite him?” Shiro crosses his arms, as if this will convey that he means business. In all likelihood, he looks like he’s pouting, but at least he can say he tried. “I know I want Keith on our team, and I know it sounds like I’m decided? But I genuinely don’t want to bring him in if we don’t have a consensus.”

“Oh, what the fuck ever.” Rolling his eyes and quirking his shoulders, Adam gives Shiro a halfway-dismissive flick of the wrist. “Keith’s a good skater and he seems like a decent guy. As long as you ask him yourself, you’ve got my blessing.”

  


* * *

  


Given Adam and Lotor’s permission to bring a new member into their crew, Shiro looks for Keith during Faiella and Scali’s program, but comes up empty. Through Kavaguti and Smirnov’s program, then during Mirai Nagasu’s, and then Belbin and Agosto’s, Shiro keeps looking and finds no sign of where Keith might have gotten off to, once he left the ice. Shiro pauses the Keith Hunt for Adam’s exhibition skate, because he can’t miss watching something that Adam’s worked so hard on and that he cares so much for (even if it’s largely to spite his parents)—but then, it’s right back to looking and getting nowhere.

During intermission, Shiro’s search turns up exactly as much nothing as it did before the break. Nobody he asks has seen Keith, either, which sets Shiro’s nerves right up on edge. It’s unlikely that anything bad happened to Keith, given all the security and the circus that would spring up, if a champion were injured or disappeared or worse—but what if?

Unfortunately, Shiro can’t poke around the Pacific Arena as much as he’d like. As intermission draws to a close, he’s on-deck, summoned by the hosting duties that come with winning a gold medal. Once the local juniors have shown off their synchronized choreography that ends in them forming the Olympic rings, Shiro’s giving a speech at center-rink and introducing a local twelve-year-old novice, chosen to skate his “Fever” program and celebrate the joy of teaching younger people to skate. Obviously, these ceremonial parts matter, and Shiro doesn’t object to them; they are, however, keeping him from what he really wants to do.

While Stéphane Lambiel takes the ice, invited to skate his “Ne me quitte pas” program after a hip injury from 2008 almost didn’t let him get here, Shiro skulks backstage. He’d rather keep looking for Keith, but after another sweep of the places he’s checked, Shiro gives up. He has stretches to get through, if he doesn’t want to botch his own exhibition skate, and he needs to clear his mind of all these Keith-related nerves. If Shiro can’t find him, then maybe Keith doesn’t want to be found.

To the tune of Johnny’s “Poker Face” program, Shiro eases himself down into a split. He’s getting himself centered (or back to whatever emotional place Shiro has that best approximates a center), breathing deeply and slowly, stretching his arms over his head and working out the tension that he always carries in his back, feeling, and— _keff! keff!_

Shiro’s breath shocks into him. Trying to turn around, he topples over. When he gets himself righted, though, he finds Keith blinking at him, furrowing his brow in concern.

“You okay?” Keith wrinkles his nose when Shiro nods. “I didn’t mean to rattle you or anything?”

“‘s okay,” Shiro tells him, pushing himself up off the floor and into the seat beside Keith. “Looking for you earlier was worse, actually. For the nerves. Seemed like you weren’t anywhere. Nowhere I could find, at least.”

Without saying anything, Keith lolls his head back into the wall. He goes quiet for several moments—so, to keep the conversation moving, Shiro adds, “I mean, maybe people got confused because I was asking for ‘Keith _KOH-gah-nay_ ’ instead of ‘Keith _koh-GAYNE_ ’—”

“You are more invested in that pronunciation thing than I’ve been, like? Literally ever.”

“The emcees and announcers get everybody else’s name right. Your father’s half-Japanese. How hard is it for them to say ‘ _KOH-gah-nay_ ’?”

“I’m more worried about hearing my full name out of Thace tonight, but…” Trailing off, Keith makes a noncommittal sound. “That’s a risk I took by ditching my ‘Jolene’ exhibition skate and doing the program Thace thought was _too sexualized_.”

“Oh, he should wait for Lotor’s, if that’s his attitude.”

“Lotor’s twenty-one, though. Not seventeen. Which was totally why Thace wanted me to do ‘Jolene.’”

“What, like seventeen-year-olds are too young for Adam Lambert?”

“That’s what I said! And if Lance had made it into the exhibition, Coran was gonna let him do some sex kitten choreography to a Shakira song, so…” Keith rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest, which could be a reaction to any number of pieces in this puzzle, whether they’re related to Thace, or to Coran, or to Lance Esparza, Keith’s rink-mate who’s originally from Varadero, Cuba. Sighing, though, Keith spells the answer out pretty clearly: “Like, I know it’s rough, us living in Detroit instead of Melainburg or Thaldycon, with the rest of the family. I get that Thace wants to protect me. But what in the world is so _wrong_ with me doing Adam Lambert?”

Shaking his head, Shiro says, “Absolutely nothing is wrong with that.”

“Exactly, right? Jesus, you know what’s _really_ wrong, in _my_ world? Like, speaking personally?” Shiro doesn’t suppose he does, so Keith explains, “When I went around to my teachers, to get all the work I’d need to do while I’m here instead of at school? Every. single. goddamn. one of them. asked some version of the same question, and I hate it.”

“Was it, ‘Are you gonna win gold’? ‘cause… yeah, that question’s just about the worst. I had a few teachers in high school who acted like, ‘Oh, it’s not worth it to miss class if you don’t bring home a gold medal.’”

“What, like a sixteen-year-old making it to Torino wasn’t a big enough deal? Or—” Keith cuts himself off with a groan, shaking his head hard enough that glitter flies off his hair and costume. “But, no. Me and Lance kept having to hear, ‘Oh, right, aren’t you doing basically what Charlie and Meryl do?’”

“Wait, _what_?”

Eyebrow arching so high, he can feel it trying to escape his forehead, Shiro glances to another corner of the room. Oblivious to him peering in their direction, Charlie White and Meryl Davis—Team USA’s silver-medalist ice dancers—stretch with each other, occasionally murmuring what Shiro assumes are reassurances. He can’t _hear_ them, but he’d try to offer that kind of moral support to a partner, if he ever ventured into pairs skating or ice-dance. He frowns, looking from Charlie’s jeans to Meryl’s little blue dress, and when no explanation for Keith’s teachers makes itself, Shiro gives him a clueless shrug.

“It… it’s probably kind of a school-specific thing,” Keith supposes, ducking his chin. “Charlie graduated from my school in 2005. Like, before me and Lance even started going there. But all our teachers still remember him and love him, and like? Now, he and Meryl go to the university that Lance and I most want to go to, and we’ll probably avoid them more easily there? But our high school isn’t that big, and all our teachers wanted to talk about, even when we took off for the qualifying rounds? Is Charlie, Charlie, _Charlie_ —and oh right, _Meryl_ exists too, doesn’t she.”

Utterly failing to seem casual, Keith quirks his shoulders and stares over at the Davis-and-White dream team. “I get it, he’s a really great guy and all? Not like I actually _know_ him that well, ‘cause we haven’t spoken much? But he’s _nice_. And he’s humble, and he’s sweet, and he’s got a face made for Wheaties boxes. Charlie’s kind, and smart, and people actually like having him around, unlike me and Lance, because he comes on like a hurricane, and I’m too _difficult_ , and even if I weren’t, most people hate me before I even open my mouth.”

Shiro very much wants to protest that last statement—but a molten hot sigh bursts out of Keith before he can. “I just… Charlie and Meryl are in a completely different event. Why can’t I be _Keith_ , instead of Charlie But Mixed-Asian-And-Galra?”

Listening to Keith go on, Shiro gets an ache in his chest, like his heart is literally breaking. Every halfway intelligent-sounding response withers up and dies in his throat, as he takes in the misery radiating off of Keith and the way his shoulders sag while his back goes so rigid, Shiro doesn’t dare get too far into Keith’s space. Shiro recognizes this sort of look; he can tell what might be going on inside of Keith. One wrong touch could make him jump out of his skin, or set his body ablaze with pain and panic. Either this was building up inside of Keith before he took the ice, only reaching its boiling point now, or he has practically superhuman restraint.

Worse than anything else, though, is the question lurking, unspoken, just beneath the surface of Keith’s frustration. From his ragged breaths to the fist balled up and digging into his knee, Keith silently screams, _“Why aren’t I good enough as myself?”_

Swallowing a sigh of his own, Shiro reaches for Keith’s shoulder, and pauses just shy of the mark. “May I? Would that be okay?”

Keith hesitates, but once he gives permission, he slumps into Shiro’s touch.

“You _are_ Keith,” he says, as gently as he can manage. “You aren’t Charlie, or Johnny, or Lambiel. You aren’t Adam or Lotor. You aren’t _me_. By the good grace of whatever you believe in, you aren’t stuck being Lysacek or Evgeni Plushenko—” Keith snorts, then snickers, and that sound is a burst of sunshine in Shiro’s chest, a sign of hope, a sign that maybe, this pep-talk won’t be pointless. “You are _more_ than good enough, Keith, exactly as you are and without being anybody else—”

“Yeah, that’s _great_ ,” Keith mutters. “Except for how everybody and their mother’s friend on the ISU board fucking _wants_ me to be somebody else. Even Thace, like? Okay, it’s kinda better with him? He only wants me to be version of me that feels like doing the demure, lovelorn program that he picked out—”

“And you _defied_ him about that.” As obvious as this point feels, Keith’s scrunched up kitten face says that Shiro might have phrased it wrong? Still, he presses on: “The point of an exhibition skate is performing what _you_ want, showing off _your own_ truth, as _you_ understand it. Thace wanted you to go one way, you went the other, and you know what, Keith?”

Wide-eyed, Keith slowly shakes his head.

Shiro gives him a smile, small and easy. “You _owned_ the ice, Keith. That was the best I’ve ever seen you skate.”

Bowing his head again, Keith flushes as cherry red as that cowboy-looking outfit that Thace had him in, before. “You wouldn’t have done it either,” he mumbles, barely audible as one of the coaches badgers Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir. “You’re so cool and above it all. Nobody could ever tell you not to do a program.”

“Actually, they have. More than once—”

“Okay, but they couldn’t tell you anything about an _exhibition_ skate—”

“Actually? They _have_. Still on multiple occasions.” When this earns him a bemused, deeply skeptical frown, Shiro gives Keith a shrug and a sad smile. “So, it’s pretty hard to miss how much I love skating to George Michael’s music, right?”

“It’s pretty hard to miss how much he likes _you_.” Smirking, Keith elbows Shiro in the side. This earns him an arched eyebrow, and yet, Keith insists, “I mean, it’s obvious that he likes you, personally. With the way you actually met him? Or what about all the pictures that end up on Facebook and Twitter? Like, can you _ever_ go to the UK without stopping in to see him?”

“Nice try on distracting me,” Shiro says. “What you’re _not_ doing is changing the fact that I’m telling the truth. See, I’ve wanted to do a program to ‘Careless Whisper’ since before my junior debut, practically since I started learning to skate. I’ve been working on a ‘Careless Whisper’ program, on and off, for _years_ , at this point. Sometimes, I decide by myself that it’s not the right moment to skate that song, but then, other times…?”

Knowingly, Keith nods and curls around himself. “Other times, you back down and let other people make that choice for you.”

“Exactly. So, by standing up to Thace and skating what you wanted? You’ve pulled off something that’s been a struggle for me, and I respect that.” Smiling warmly, Shiro fumbles in his leather jacket’s pocket. “Can I get your number, Keith?”

When he proffers his phone, Keith mostly blinks at it. “Uh, wait, what?”

“I want to swap numbers, make it easier to keep in touch—and it doesn’t look like you’ve got a lot of places to put your phone in that costume.” Keith doesn’t suppose he does, and Shiro beams when he takes the phone. “So, I’ll text you, once I’ve got your number, and then you’ll have mine.”

“Makes sense, but…” Zeroing in on Shiro, Keith’s eyes sparkle. “Why are you doing this?”

So many potential answers rocket around Shiro’s mind, most of them mere repetitions of each other, dancing around something so simple that Shiro ought to spit it out too easily. Yet, something in his chest aches wistfully as he tells Keith, “I like the way you skate, y’know? I like what I see of you off the ice. I thought… maybe we could be friends?”

For all that pang in his chest does not make sense, Keith’s eager grin soothes it fairly well. “I didn’t win a medal in Vancouver, but I made a friend all by myself,” he deadpans. “God, my Dad’s gonna be so proud.”


	3. Shanghai—2012.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since he wasn’t included in the disclaimer at the start of this fic: the late, IRL George Michael was not harmed in the writing of this fanfiction, and much like Johnny Weir, he is referenced and used throughout with love and respect. Also, because my headcanon Shiro is always a George Michael fanboy, and while writing, I had the idea, “Hey, what if Shiro actually got to meet George Michael in this reality, especially after that ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ program got so much attention and led to him publicly coming out,” so…… Here we are.

_“Now, the party don’t start ‘til I walk in!”_

Distantly, Keith makes out the sound of someone thudding hard into the ice. He should probably look up, in case that someone was Lance. Or because it’s what a decent person would do, in Keith’s position. Still, Keith takes a deep breath, and then another, and he keeps his head down, his eyes on statistics textbook, splayed open on his lap. If he focuses on the homework he brought with him to Shanghai for the Cup of China, then he might not—

_“Goddammit, Esparza!”_

Hearing _that_ voice, Keith can’t help cringing. James Griffin has the pointiest chin that Keith has ever seen in his life. His chestnut brown hair always looks like he uses a ruler to get it parted exactly right. His voice has the perpetual, sneering drawl of those obnoxious little shits from high school who used to complain about how Keith and Lance missed class for professional figure skating competitions, so why couldn’t they be excused to go have sex at Rachel’s house a couple blocks away from campus. Worst of all, though, Griffin’s beady grey eyes never fail to make Keith think about the ferret that Regris had when they were kids.

Keith hated that fucking ferret. It always stared at him like he owed it literally anything, as if it had any right to know his entire life story, and it reeked worse than the men’s lockers and showers at Utopia Springs after Mom, Dad, and Kolivan wind up playing host to a bunch of visiting foreign businessmen, every single one of them an aging creep, and all of them invariably deciding that Keith’s longish hair and hips that resemble Mom’s mean he needs their catcalling. Maybe Keith didn’t have anything to do with the ferret’s eventual disappearance and demise, but he sure didn’t lose any sleep over his cousin’s missing pet, either.

Right about now, Keith thinks he’d rather deal with the ferret than with the increasingly noisy bickering that Lance and Griffin are getting up to. Gritting his teeth, Keith forces himself to look away from his textbook. On the ice, over by the kiss-and-cry, Lance puffs up his chest and throws his arms open like he’d shout, _“Come at me, bro!”_ if he didn’t correctly suspect that Griffin’s non-existent sense of humor wouldn’t appreciate him referencing a meme. Rubbing at his own cheek, Griffin shoots Lance a glare that would murder him in a second, if only Griffin had heat-vision.

“You’ve got headphones for a _reason_ , you obnoxious little fuck,” Griffin spits, voice equal parts venomous and burning with rage. “It’s so the rest of us—you know, the _real_ champions at this gala—don’t have to listen to your fucking _Kesha_ song.”

“Uh, first of all? How _dare_ you speak ill of Kesha Rose.” Planting his hands on his hips, Lance stands with arms akimbo, as if anyone would find this posture threatening. “Anyway, look, I didn’t notice that I was singing along, okay? I got caught up in the song—”

“Yes, you did. Because you’re _obnoxious_ —”

“Takes one to know one—”

“And you’re _rude_ —”

“All you’ve done since the Cup started? Has been skate and pick on Keith!”

“This isn’t _about_ Kogane, Esparza—”

“Well, maybe _you_ don’t want it to be about him—”

“No, I am just _telling_ you that _Kogane_ has nothing to do—”

“I think he’s got _everything_ to do with it—”

“ _Kogane_ isn’t the one blathering his unprofessional choice of songs—”

“Yeah, because Panic! At The Disco is _so_ much more professional than Kesha—”

“The boys in Panic! don’t brush their teeth with _whisky_ —”

“That’s a character she plays, you moron. A persona that she just made up for the _fun_ , and for her _art_ , and just—it’s called _kayfabe_ , duh. Like professional wrestling.” Probably thinking that he shouldn’t need to give this explanation, Lance rolls his eyes so hard, it’s a miracle they stay inside his head. “I know they have professional wrestling in Canada, dude. John Cena’s from there.”

Faltering for the first time, Griffin frowns bemusedly. “…Who’s John Cena?”

“Oh, come on! What d’you even mean, ‘Who’s John Cena’!”

“What do you _think_ I mean, Esparza? Who is he?”

Since he’s getting nowhere with trying to puff up like an irritated bird, Lance crosses his arms and sneers right back at Griffin, giving him a near-perfect match of his stink-faced expression. Despite nominally knowing better, Keith can’t help smirking and snickering under his breath. Nobody else he knows can give as good as James Griffin does in these little verbal cat-fights that he’s always picking—which he richly deserves. Somebody should’ve given Griffin a lesson about his entitlement complex _before_ it got to be the approximate size of Jupiter.

“I am _so_ not explaining John Cena to you,” Lance says with a huff, “when you’re _obviously_ just using him to get out of any accountability for bullying somebody who’s on _my_ team.”

Vaguely, Keith considers piping up to correct Lance about that assertion. Although they share a rink, lived on the same block in Birmingham and live in the same dorm at the University of Michigan, and their coaches get along really well, Keith and Lance technically _aren’t_ on the same team. They can’t be, since they skate for Cuba and Marmora respectively, and Griffin might well point that out, if he and Lance keep going at each other too much longer.

Keith, however, looks back to his homework and keeps his corrections to himself. Ever since Lance found Keith melting down in the stairwell by their old high school’s band room, he and Hunk have been some of the closest things Keith has to friends. They’re the closest friends he has in the physical sense, too; Keith only gets to see Matt and Pidge in person when he gets home to Thaldycon. Considering how most people treat him more like Griffin than Hunk, Lance, Matt, and Pidge, Keith’s not going to debate Lance about the semantics of team membership. That might seem ungrateful. Anyway, if Lance wants to pointlessly defend Keith instead of backing down, then that’s his prerogative and—

“I don’t care how you feel about the way I talk to Kogane! I don’t care about Kogane at all!”

“Uh huh, _sure_. That’s why you’ve been on his dick since we were in juniors, because you _don’t care_ that he’s a better—”

“He is _not_ a better skater than I am and I couldn’t give a fuck less about his dick—”

“You know I meant metamorphically, fuck-wad! Like, about how you won’t let Keith freaking _breathe_ without being all, ‘Oh, you were ever so slightly shaky in your landing, hope you don’t break your ankle, ha ha, passive-aggressive garbage, my name’s _Griffin_ and I’m _obsessed_ with Keith Kogane!’”

Much like his tendency to forget or mix up words (whether in English, Spanish, or Galran) when he gets riled up about something, Lance’s mocking voice for Griffin needs work. It’s basically the same affected, high-pitched sneer he uses when he’s irritated with their RA at school. But at least Griffin doesn’t know that, and hearing Lance go on stuns him into silence, a rare victory.

“Anyway, I was gonna apologize for throwing you off before you started acting like a massive bag of gummi bear dicks.”

Skinny, pale brown face contorted into an expression that cannot be comfortable, Griffin balks. “…Did your parents drop you into a vat of methamphetamine when you were an infant? Or was it LSD? Literally _why_ are you like this?”

“I don’t know! Why are _you_ such a smarmy, insufferable—”

“ _That’s enough!_ ”

Keith gasps as that new voice booms over the rink. He can’t help it. Holding his breath, he lets his eyes dart all over the arena—and then, there’s Shiro, standing tall among the seats with his arms folded over his chest in a way that, unlike Lance’s nonsense posturing, clearly means business.

As he strides over to the kiss-and-cry, Allura trails along behind him, even though the women’s practice time is on another rink, then drops into one of the open seats. Leaning back to watch the show, she drapes her long, perfect legs over the row in front of her, since it’s just as unoccupied as her own seat. While her physical position may not scream, _“Why, yes, I am the Crown Princess of Altea and the women’s singles silver-medalist from the 21st Winter Olympic Games”_ —Keith seriously doubts that her old etiquette tutors and _au pairs_ would approve of Allura half-slouching, half-sprawling like this—the inescapably royal air like she owns everything comes through, crystal clear.

If Allura ever snacked on anything, she’d probably be hitting the popcorn right now, and Keith wouldn’t blame her. By all rights, somebody should enjoy the show that they’re about to witness, because Shiro almost never _shows it_ , when he gets this angry. In graveyard silence, Shiro scowls at Lance and Griffin, radiating an energy that says, _“You two know what you did, and you know why I’m upset about it. I know you’re better than this, so yes, I could be disappointed—but right now, I’d rather punch through a window because I am so pissed off.”_

“Uh…” Lance starts, hunching “Hey, Shiro, are—I don’t— _He started it_ —”

“Oh, bull _shit_ I started it, you lying little—”

“I don’t care who started it,” Shiro snaps, and even from here, Keith could swear he sees those beautiful gray eyes flash, looking more like storm-clouds or molten gunmetal than the herons and owls that Shiro’s eyes usually make Keith think of. “You’re both supposed to be professionals—”

“Oh, right, is _that_ why they gave Esparza this pity-invitation to skate with us? Because he’s _so_ professional—”

“It’s because he knows how to put on a good show, actually. Audiences like watching Lance skate.” This makes Lance crow victoriously and throw his arms open again—but before he can enjoy it too much, Shiro adds, “And James has a point, Lance: you were being pretty loud while singing along to your music—”

Lance whines in protest, because of course he does. Unfortunately, no matter how much he hero-worships Shiro, Lance can’t erase the fact that, between singing along to “Tik Tok” and fighting like a bag of wet cats with Griffin, he _was_ helping create a less-than-friendly work environment for everybody else who’s meant to use this rink, all two of them. On the plus, it only takes Shiro a few moments to talk Lance and Griffin into heading out to take a walk, clear their heads, and only come back when they’re ready to lace up and act like the adults Shiro knows they are.

As soon as they’re gone, he collapses into the open seat beside Allura’s legs. Like a puppet without its strings, Shiro’s entire body goes slack, and Keith can’t really tell, but maybe, he looks a few shades paler than he should? It could be the lighting in here washing him out, or maybe Shiro didn’t sleep well, or maybe Keith just needs to get closer—but of course, he shouldn’t do that. He shouldn’t invite himself to crash in on Shiro and Allura, shouldn’t _presume_ like that, shouldn’t invite himself anywhere near Shiro because having each other’s numbers doesn’t mean anything about where Keith fits in Shiro’s life—because he _doesn’t_ fit into Shiro’s life, not really, so he shouldn’t even try—

“Keith!” Allura calls out, beaming and waving at him like she knows the answer in a lecture and can’t make the prof pay attention to her. “Come on! Join us before the loud, unpleasant ones come back!”

Well, now that she’s called him out like that, Keith can’t bury himself in homework without bullshitting some excuse. Since no lies come to mind, he hauls his textbook and his skates over there, and plops into the seat on the other side of her legs. Despite not having eyes in the back of his head, Keith can practically feel Allura smiling at him, and if he could ask her to stop without sounding like a total headcase, he’d seriously consider doing so. As it stands, he forces himself to return that smile, then give one to Shiro, who looks like he could sleep for a thousand years and still be tired.

Then again, Shiro’s looked pretty consistently tired ever since he cut off his ponytail. When he, Adam, and Lotor stopped sleeping together last year, barely anything changed at all. They still call each other by their horde of weird endearments, and they still come to each other’s competitions as often as possible. The new guy that Shiro’s seeing, though… Not that Shiro’s _said_ as much, but Keith suspects that Maurice Sendak, captain and star center-forward for the Vancouver Canucks, had something to do with Shiro’s “choice” to switch to this cropped undercut with a longer, floofy bit up front.

Shiro also hasn’t said that Sendak’s the reason why he sighs in relief when he doesn’t find any messages waiting on his phone, then dumps it back into his Team USA track jacket. He hasn’t said that his shit-bag boyfriend’s the reason he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, or that Sendak’s the reason why he barely replies to anyone on Twitter anymore.

But all over Instagram and TMZ, Keith’s seen photos and videos of them together. Used to be, both of them got so wrapped up in each other that the rest of the world might as well have ceased existing. Now, most of the shots have Shiro hiding behind his gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses with the black reflective lenses, the ones he likes because they look like _Faith_ -era George Michael. When Shiro can’t get away with that, his eyes look red and puffy, like as not, and a good half the time, he’s cringing or rolling his eyes at Sendak over _something_.

Keith’s seen the pics from fundraising dinners, where Shiro smiles politely but only errs into Sendak’s personal space because he’s practically shackled to Sendak’s hog-sized forearm. And Keith’s seen the shots people have taken after different Canucks games, when Sendak hauls Shiro out on whatever town he’s in right now, dragging him by the wrist into different sketchy-looking bars that never cut him off, then tugging Shiro flush against his hulking chest once he’s good and tanked, slipping one of those enormous, hairy hands behind Shiro’s head and holding him so he can’t escape, and taking whatever he, Sendak wants. Keith’s seen so many photos where Shiro looks like he would’ve preferred death to his boyfriend.

The worst, so far, has been the video that some looky-loo in Calgary put on Instagram. In it, Sendak’s so wasted that Keith can practically smell it, pawing at Shiro and growling about how he led his team to victory over their sworn rivals. _“Shouldn’t I get some manner of reward for that, Takashi,”_ he rumbles over the din of the bar, refusing to let Shiro pull away or hear any of his points about getting a cab back to the hotel. When Shiro almost gets out of his embrace, Sendak grabs his leather jacket and yanks him back, then kisses Shiro like he wants to eat him alive, headfirst, like a praying mantis who doesn’t need to fuck before it kills.

Watching that video makes Keith sick. Even looking at the filename makes his nerves flare up and start itching for who even knows what, but he keeps the horrific fucking thing anyway and he saved the original poster’s information. In case Shiro ever gets in too deep with Sendak—in case he ever needs to file for a restraining order, or worse, a _divorce_ , Adam’s God forbid—Shiro will want evidence. Maybe Keith doesn’t deserve his friendship, but as long as Shiro insists on calling him a friend, Keith had better make himself useful.

He’d also better catch up on his stats homework, but as he’s trying to pull the words and graphs back into focus, a sneaker bops him in the head. When he glances over his shoulder, Allura blushes through her apologetic grin.

“Forgive me, Keith,” she says like she means it. “I was trying to kick Shiro. But he distracted me—”

“I did no such thing, Your Highness.” Back to intently poking at his phone, Shiro drawls the proper form of Allura’s address with a playful air, a few shades too casual for Keith to trust that it’s legitimate. “All I did was tell you that I got a Twitter DM and I need to reply to it.”

“Yes, but you refused to tell me who sent it, when I asked so sweetly. Which is terribly rude and hardly what a friend—”

“Ah, yeah, point taken. I’m not enabling your gossip habit, therefore I’m a bad friend—”

“It’s from George Michael.” Leaning over just far enough to see that much, Keith wrinkles his nose at Shiro. “What, you can’t tell us that your hero’s talking to you? We already _know_ that. Hell, he’s been your friend longer than me and Allura have.”

Slouching guiltily, Shiro pouts. “It’s more that… I know _you guys_ will be cool about it, but…” He glances around the rink, combs his long, tawny fingers through that floofy bit of hair. “I really don’t need anybody gossiping about how George and I can only talk through DMs anymore. Ever since _Maurice_ got it in his head that he’s at risk of getting cuckolded because George got me, Adam, and Lotor tickets to the closing ceremony of the London Games, then got me backstage when I saw him at Earls Court last month, and then I asked George what he thinks of how my ‘Faith’ program’s coming…”

Trailing off into an exasperated sigh, Shiro shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “I’m sympathetic, okay? I get feeling insecure in a relationship, and I’m _trying_ to help. But Maurice’s whole, overblown fear that I’m cheating on him is _exhausting_.”

“…But you would never do that to someone.”

“That’s what I’ve told Maurice, Keith. I’ve been like, ‘Why would I cheat on you? That’s not like me, it’s not the kind of guy I am. I would never cheat on anyone, Maurice’—and yet…”

“Wait, isn’t Mr. Michael _married_?”

“Not exactly? He’s seeing a new guy, but…” Shiro flips the floof off his forehead and pockets his phone. “He and Mr. Goss split a couple years ago. Which is kinda why I relied on him a lot, when me, Adam, and Lotor called off the romance, like?” Heaving a deep exhale, he slumps low enough to loll his head onto the back of the seat. “My grandparents are great, but Ojiisan was sick, so I didn’t want to be like, ‘Oh, enough about your cancer maybe relapsing, let’s discuss the details of my love life.’ Then, Uncle Mitch and Aunt Satomi are great, I love them, but they both married the loves of their lives, and never had any _major_ breakups.”

“But Mr. Michael _did_ have that sort of experience?” Gentle in both her voice and her movements, Allura nudges her ankle into Shiro’s neck. “So, you reached out for advice and commiserating, and he helped you process those feelings…”

“Yeah. And then Maurice saw a text asking if I was still reeling from the breakup, and he decided that I hadn’t told George about my new boyfriend yet because I was sleeping around.” Shiro huffs like he could start breathing fire. “Y’know, never _mind_ that my friend and mentor called off a bunch of shows last year and came down with pneumonia so bad that he almost died. Then, I had to get my ‘Fastlove’ program ready for Nationals, Four Continents, and Worlds, and of course I want to make it amazing—for my sake _and_ for his—so George and I mostly talk about that when we get the chance to talk, not about who I’m dating or sleeping with right now…”

Putting on a catty sneer, like Lance and Griffin picking on each other, Shiro grouses, “‘Oh, I know he’s so important to you, but I don’t _trust_ him, Takashi. That singer could be seducing you with his sultry voice and you’d never realize because you’re so _good_ , and so _innocent_ , and you always believe the _best_ in people (especially him), Takashi. I don’t care what he means to you, or how much his coming out meant to much to you, as a child, Takashi; I don’t _care_ that your Wham! program from Torino led to your own coming out, because his example inspired you to do so. Yes, it’s _fine_ that you adore George, but I _can’t_ believe that his intentions with you are anything but untoward, Takashi, you’re just too beautiful, how could he _resist_ ’—like, _Goddamn_ , Maurice.”

He lets his head loll back, stretching out his impossibly beautiful, logic-defying neck. “Who cares that I’m not actually that innocent. Who  _cares_ that I can make my own choices and I know what I want. Who cares that I _don’t_ blindly trust everyone, actually—I mean, Jesus, you’d think a _gay man_ would understand how fucked up it is for him to accuse a _fellow_ gay man of preying on a _younger_ gay man, like that’s _not_ one of the oldest garbage tricks in the conservative gay-bashing handbook.”

Strictly speaking? Yes, Keith would think that, if the accusatory gay man in question were anyone _but_ Maurice.

Regardless, there’s probably no way for him to say that without invalidating Shiro and his feelings in the same way that Maurice is apparently doing on a regular basis. It’s for the best if Keith tamps those thoughts down, shoves them into a mental coffin, and then set that coffin on fire. Besides, there’s no way in Hell that Shiro will ever look twice at Keith—not as a potential boyfriend, at least. These are the simple facts of the world and Keith has to live with that reality, no matter how much he dislikes them.

Besides, if Keith even remotely deserved Shiro, then he never would’ve screwed around with Tim at school, who almost kinda looked like Shiro, when you turned the lights off. Then, Keith never would’ve started feeling things about Tim as himself, his own person who _didn’t_ actually look that much like Shiro if you really got down to brass tacks. Without those feelings, Keith never would’ve entertained delusions of mattering to Tim at all, and so, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt when Lance dragged him to the party at the Alpha Tau house and Keith found Tim fucking someone else—

“Hey, Keith,” Shiro says, gently jostling Keith’s shoulder. “Have you practiced your program yet? D’you wanna get some in before Lance and Griffin get back—”

“Assuming that they haven’t killed each other,” Allura comments airily.

As if he hasn’t heard her, Shiro keeps on smiling that wonderful, horrible, beautiful smile that makes Keith’s entire chest ache. “We can even set your music up on my portable speakers, so you won’t need to use headphones? Then, Allura and I can feel the song with you.”

Without a moment’s consideration, Keith agrees. Maybe “Before He Cheats” won’t let him get out of his head, but at least skating will let him focus on something other than Shiro.


	4. Cambridge, MA—2013.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with George Michael before him, the IRL Chris Evans was not harmed in the writing of this fanfiction, and he is only invoked here with love and respect, though his role in things is significantly smaller and he isn’t referenced nearly as often as George Michael.
> 
> Additionally, this chapter feels some of the chubby!Keith. Much like Yuuri in YOI canon, this reality’s Keith puts on weight easily. Unlike Yuuri, when Keith gets stressed out (which happens not-irregularly, not least because he really needs help managing his anxiety), it’s sort of a toss-up on whether he’s going to stress-eat or get so sick that he can’t eat anything. At the moment, Keith has been stress-eating. It’s not referenced much, but he does get unfairly down on himself about his weight and about dieting to get ready for the 2013-14 Grand Prix series.

About the last thing that Keith expected was an invitation out to Harvard for this year’s Evening with Champions shows. Nobody organizing the event asked him or Lance to skate in it—go figure, since neither of them’s beaten Lotor or Adam to get on an international podium yet—so, by all rights, they should’ve stayed in Ann Arbor, working on their midterm essays and Grand Prix series programs. They should be back in their apartment just off-campus, with Hunk, probably listening to Lance’s case for why a Tau Omega party will be infinitely better than an Alpha Tau party.

Instead, Keith leans forward in his seat, peering at the ice as the applause for Romelle’s final performance this evening dies down. Beaming like a human ray of sunshine, collecting some of the cotton candy pink teddy bears and bouquets of amaryllis flowers that people threw down to the ice for her, she might as well be a completely different person from the one who just skated to “The World Is Not Enough.” Sure, the little black dress she skated in still looks the same, but the Romelle who ended her program on a flawless quad salchow had such a somber air about her; it felt like she really could’ve been a Bond villain.

To Keith’s left, Hunk rustles uncomfortably, fidgeting with the hem of his golden yellow hoodie. “She? …Has she ever skated like that before? …Like, I mean, I know she’s good, she wouldn’t’ve won Worlds last year if she weren’t, but?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, buddy,” Lance says, at Keith’s right. “Romelle and Allura are both doing things like I’ve never seen? I mean, I’ve seen them working at the rink in Detroit, but… Not like? This is kinda some next-level…?”

By way of emphasizing whatever he thinks his point is, Lance gives a low whistle. Inhaling deeply, he drags his tongue over his chapped lips and as Romelle leaves the Bright-Landry Hockey Center’s ice, it looks like Lance’s eyes could pop clean out of his skull. If Keith didn’t know better, he’d assume Lance was getting himself all twisted up over the state of Romelle’s and Allura’s butts, rather than how they’re skating.

Actually, that’s not entirely off the table, either. When it comes to appreciating hot people, Lance can multitask better than anyone else Keith’s ever met in his life. Of course Lance could find a way to admire Allura’s and Romelle’s skating as well as their bodies. He’s probably doing that, right now, while Keith’s busy unfairly judging him.

Not that Allura’s body _needs_ admiration, at the moment. During her “Killer Queen” program, she kept her energy up, but she still looked like she could’ve easily passed out on the ice. Maybe it’s the distance screwing with Keith’s perceptions, but he’d bet money that she’s looking thinner than usual, too.

He felt the same thing about Shiro, when he kicked off the evening with his “Too Funky” program. The tuxedo-looking costume fit him better, the last time Keith saw it; there didn’t seem to be so much fabric, and it didn’t gape around Shiro’s torso, the way it did tonight. Although the seats that Shiro got them are good, Keith couldn’t tell if he was seeing things, making up the higher arch to Shiro’s cheekbones or the sharper cut of his jawline. If anything’s wrong, it didn’t throw off any of his jumps or footwork, but who knows whether or not that’s going to hold true?

Not that either Shiro or Allura gave a _bad_ performance—far from it. Shiro, especially, could never do let an audience down like that, and he won’t do it, now. There’s no such thing as a bad performance from someone who loves skating as much as he did. But there’s a knot of _something_ building in Keith’s chest, and it doesn’t like the way that Shiro’s looking, tonight. Whatever his nerves are doing, they don’t want to let Keith rest, because what if Shiro actually _is_ in trouble, what if he _has_ gotten thin, what if he’s sick, or running out of time, or what if his so-called boyfriend—

Dimly, Keith recalls the way Shiro’s costume billowed around his thighs and the part of him that is a Certified Terrible Person flares up with jealousy. A wave of nausea lurches over Keith next. God, if Shiro and Allura have actually lost a noticeable amount of weight, then they’re probably stressed, or sick, or stressed _and_ sick, or something _worse_ , but here Keith is, envying them for getting so thin, as if he has any right to—

“So,” Lance sighs, cutting into Keith’s thoughts like he can smell the anxiety building and doesn’t want to let Keith feel it for too long, “who’s got bets on what George Michael song Shiro’s closing the show out with tonight? My money’s on ‘Careless Freaking Whisper.’”

“Ugh, he wouldn’t do that.” Keith probably shouldn’t roll his eyes, but Lance’s idea is genuinely stupid. “He’s worked too hard on that program. Plus, that song’s too important to him. He wouldn’t debut a ‘Careless Whisper’ skate at a charity event like this. He’d keep it in his back-pocket for some amazing victory at Worlds, or maybe Sochi next year.”

“How was he _not_ amazing enough at Worlds last year?” Hunk frowns bemusedly. “I thought he skated really well? Plus, he won his umpteenth Worlds gold, so like… How much more amazing does he need to be?”

“Probably very,” Lance huffs. “Not a dig at Shiro or anything, obviously? But he’s basically never satisfied with what he’s skating. Kinda like somebody else I know… Somebody who’s sitting right next to me… Somebody who’s wearing a tacky red leather jacket…”

Keeping his eyes on the ice, Keith takes several deep breaths and tells himself not to take the bait. Lance doesn’t actually mean it, whenever he sounds like he’s insulting Keith. If he meant it, then he wouldn’t go after Keith at the rink in Detroit, when Keith fumbles away from practice and down the nearest corridor, pushing through the feeling like the world’s ending all around him, only letting himself collapse to the floor when he’s sure that he’s put enough distance between himself and the ice.

Finding Keith with his legs curled up and his head between his knees, Lance wouldn’t then proceed to sit with him, gently rub Keith’s shoulder, and guide him through breathing in and out, telling him that he’s fine, he’s safe, he’s at the rink with Lance, everybody flubs a jump now and then so it’s not a big deal that Keith’s came up under-rotated just now or that he fell over while working on it, and everything’s going to be okay.

If Lance actually meant any of his ostensible contempt he ever throws Keith’s way, then he never would’ve agreed to be roommates after their first year at Michigan, he never would’ve moved in together, and he never would’ve deigned to start calling Keith his friend. It’s that simple, really.

Still, Keith doesn’t need to verbally acknowledge Lance’s current attempts at… whatever he thinks he’s doing. Right now, all Lance’s game accomplishes is making Keith’s leg twitch harder, shivering with the nerves that refuse to let him tame them.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Lance drawls, once he gets the point that Keith doesn’t feel like playing along. “Come on, Red. Didn’t Shiro tell _you_ what he’s getting up to? Like, he invited you special, he got all of us tickets and offered to help cover our hotel room—”

“He’s just being _nice_ , Lance. His family’s got all kinds of money, of course he wants to help—”

“Yeah, but he very specifically asked _you_ , first. He only included me and Hunk after you asked—”

“What? Like I was gonna leave you guys out of this?”

“I think Lance is more saying that, like?” Letting slip a tight, throaty sound, Hunk slumps back in his seat. “Shiro invited us, when you wanted to know if we could come too, and that’s nice of him? But Shiro asking _you specifically_ to come? Means that you’re important to him. More than us, for sure. Which only makes sense in _my_ case, since he’s never even met me, but like…”

Shrugging, Hunk allows himself to sigh. “I’m just saying, Keith? And I think Lance is just saying, too? Maybe Shiro doesn’t _totally_ lack in the friend department? But he could do a lot better there, too. So, him specifically asking you—”

“Plus, he’s totally slept with all of his male friends, _except_ George Michael. Y’know, all three of them.” As if this magically makes his point any more valid, Lance counts off the names on his fingers. “Adam, he dated and slept with. Lotor, same thing. George Michael, I just said, they’re not an item and never will be. But there’s that journalist guy he was kinda seeing before Maurice—”

“Yuki’s not like what you’re thinking,” Keith points out, even though Lance probably isn’t listening.

“There’s that guy he used to screw around with, when he was in juniors—”

“Don’t talk about Jason like that!” Out of nowhere, Keith’s whole body flares up. His cheeks flush hot and he burns so hot, it’s a miracle he doesn’t melt the ice. Balling his hand up in a fist, he digs his nails into his palm, which doesn’t ground him as much as he’d like it to do—but at least he gets _some_ help out of deep breaths and looking at the floor instead of Lance. “I can’t tell you why you’re wrong about Jason, okay? But you’re _wrong_. And you shouldn’t even—that slimy fucker doesn’t _deserve_ to call himself Shiro’s friend.”

Even that might be pushing up against the limits of what Keith is or isn’t allowed to say on the subject. But how else can he shut Lance up without flat-out saying that Jason took advantage of Shiro? Keith can’t tell that story; it’s Shiro’s secret to reveal or not. The fact that he even bothered telling Keith about it, confessing backstage at the Grand Prix Final last December, when they had a moment alone and Shiro couldn’t calm down about a text he’d gotten from Maurice, asking who _Jason_ was and why Shiro had shut down an _Out Magazine_ interviewer who’d asked about him. The fact that Shiro opened up to _Keith_ about that—

—It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. Shiro only opened up to Keith because he was conveniently available. Anyway, Shiro has an alleged boyfriend, and even if he didn’t, he’d have suitors lined up around the block and then some, and all of them would have more of a right to be with him than Keith.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Lance half-whines, clearly distraught about not getting enough attention. “Still taking bets on which George Michael song we’re getting—”

“Why don’t you just read the program?” Hunk hisses. “It has everybody’s music listed—”

The emcee’s voice booms over the speakers, announcing the evening’s final performance and cutting all discussion short. Good thing, too. Thanks to the incessant chattering, and the feeling like Shiro was taking too long to get out here, Keith’s itching to break his hand, punching a brick wall. It probably wouldn’t help his nerves any, but at least the pain might distract him from everything else that he can’t do anything about.

Fortunately, there’s Shiro, an infinitely superior distraction—or there _should_ be Shiro. Yet, as an orchestral fanfare blares through the arena, he isn’t on the ice. Dimly, Keith feels like he ought to recognize the music—something about the melody is so familiar, the name pricks at the tip of his tongue but no matter how much he racks his brain, he can’t _quite_ get it—but maybe it’s just a matter of sounding like so many other fanfares in the history of human music. Maybe Keith can’t put his finger on what’s sticking out at him because it’s nothing.

More troublesome, though, is how Keith can’t see Shiro anywhere. Oh, God, what if something horrible happened to him backstage? What if he’s hurt? Or what if he’s sick? Or what if Maurice—

As a second fanfare plays, Shiro bursts onto the ice and glides to center-rink. Arms akimbo, back straight, and chest puffed up triumphantly, he grins up at the audience. Blinking down at him, Keith frowns. Just like the third fanfare, _something_ feels so familiar about Shiro’s blue jumpsuit and gloves. Almost as bright as his smile, a star gleams in the middle of his chest. Then, there’s the section over his stomach, with its blocky stripes of alternating red and white. His gloves glimmer under the overhead lights, the same shade of red as those stripes and whatever weirdness is going on with his skates.

Again, the distance wants to screw Keith out of understanding what’s going on—but he’d swear that Shiro’s wearing ruby red skates. Which would work for a _Wizard of Oz_ program, Keith supposes, except for how nothing else about Shiro currently suggests Dorothy Gale. Moreover, someone’s tailored his jumpsuit so that, from his knees down to his ankles, it looks like Shiro’s wearing cuffed boots, like Robin Hood, except for the part where, like his gloves and skates, the pseudo-boots are bright fucking red.

Keith should recognize this costume; the eager gasps on either side of him say as much. Like Hunk and Lance apparently do, Keith should know what Shiro’s going for, and what he’s supposed to be dressed as—

_“Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American way?”_

Shiro kicks off down the ice again, with a swagger that’s so different from what he did for his “Too Funky” skate. That was sensual, seductive, slithering around like every component of his program was flirting with the audience. Now, Shiro projects an overly cocksure air, like Lance when he feels insecure. Except unlike Lance, Shiro wears a grin that invites everyone watching in on some probably pretty amazing joke, or perhaps a commentary on something, made through the medium of figure skating.

_“Who vows to fight like a man for what’s right, night and day?”_

Too bad for Keith, he doesn’t get what that joke is supposed to be. As Shiro holds one arm up like he’s raising a shield, all Keith can think is that this song sounds way too patriotic for Shiro. Not that he hates his country, exactly, but this song sounds better suited to the, _“Rawr, yes, America, fuck yeah!”_ sorts of people, most of whom hate Shiro for daring to be openly gay, of Japanese descent, and obviously better than them, thereby disproving all of their racist, homophobic bullshit.

_“Who will campaign door-to-door for America?”_

Yet, there’s something campy about the song? The music sounds too bright, and the lyrics a few shades too cheerful and too saccharine, as if whoever composed it had some brilliant joke in mind, the way that Shiro’s insistent, megawatt grinning suggests he does.

_“Carry the flag shore to shore for America?”_

Even as he focuses on his spins, and then on picking up speed, Shiro practically struts through his components. The more Keith watches him move, the more it seems like _he’s_ camping things up, too. Because there’s no way that Shiro—the Shiro who Keith’s practiced with, the Shiro told Keith to never give up on skating his own truth, the Shiro who Keith has watched on the ice for _years_ —would peacock like this unless he had some trick lurking up his sleeve. There’s no way that he’d act so _butch_ without something else going on.

_“From Hoboken to Spokane—”_

Readying for a jump, Shiro doesn’t allow his grin to falter, and Keith still can’t get his mind around what in the ever-blazing Hell-fuck Shiro thinks he’s—

_“—the Star-Spangled Man With A Plan!”_

Keith groans into his palms as realization hits him and Shiro pulls off a flawless quad lutz.

“Fucking Captain America,” Keith mutters under his breath and the roar of applause. “Leave it to Shiro.”

For the moment, that’s all Keith can think of to say for this display. Of course Shiro would skate to this song from the Cap movie with Chris Evans, when handed a perfect opportunity to do so. Cap’s tied with Sailor Moon for the title of Shiro’s Favorite Superhero.

Unlike the pretty soldier of love and justice, however, the good Captain offers the better opportunity for Shiro to respond to some of his “critics,” the ones who don’t deserve a title that takes them any kind of seriously. Most likely, Shiro’s specifically thinking about the detractors who wonder whether or not an openly gay skater can truly be a good role model. His entire program glows with this projection of (knowingly hyper-)masculine vigor, while Shiro goes so over-the-top that it can’t help but invite most of the audience into his light and admittedly offbeat sense of humor.

Fittingly, most of the audience cheers over Shiro’s jumps and the easy, exuberant way he carries himself through his spins and his step sequence. They go gaga for Shiro’s Beillmann spin and his Ina Bauer, and absolutely apeshit for the backflip that he pulls off during the musical interlude that follows the second verse. Even if they don’t necessarily understand why Shiro’s doing this program or what it (probably) means to him, he’s so charismatic and enjoying himself so much that no one with a pulse could resist him, at the moment.

God, if not for the arena’s security and Shiro’s so-called “boyfriend,” Keith probably couldn’t resist the temptation to run down to the ice so he can grab Shiro and kiss him, just as soon as his program’s over.

If anyone watching _doesn’t_ get the satire on any level, then it’s their loss. If they can’t see what’s so perfect about an unfairly pretty, Japanese-American gay man skating in Captain America cosplay, when so many self-named _“real patriotic Americans”_ treat Shiro like he has nothing of value to offer anybody? Then, they’re the ones who are missing out, not Shiro, and frankly, Keith wouldn’t trust them until they prove they _aren’t_ the sort of bigots who Shiro’s probably trying to delightfully spite with this program.

Keith doesn’t trust his own memory, either, but only because, at the moment, he can’t tell if the musical interlude is going on longer than it normally does. Hardly matters, though. Soon enough, the singers return, crooning, _“Forceful and ready to defend the red! white! and blue!”_ as Shiro kicks off into a quad flip, triple loop combo, grinning all the way and electrifying the air with how utterly _alive_ he is.

_“Who waked the giant that napped in America!”_

As the song charges into its final chorus, Shiro stretches both arms over his head. He bends them back, digging at the nape of his neck, around where he should have a zipper. A costume reveal, or some kind of tearaway moment? _Now_? This late in the program?

_“We know it’s no one but Captain America!”_

Oh, no, wait—Shiro doesn’t rip away his costume. Whatever he pulls out of it is long and thin. Possibly, something he’s rolled up? Shiro spins it in his hands, palming at it in search of who even knows what.

_“Who’ll finish what they began?”_

Hands apparently in place, Shiro unfurls whatever he pulled out with a clear, crisp _snap!_

_“Who’ll kick the Krauts to Japan?”_

Around Keith, the crowd gasps. His breath catches in his throat, too. But Keith’s whole chest lights up like fireworks, watching that flag billow behind Shiro as he circles the rink. Although the blue box in the upper right corner has the same rows of stars that the usual American flag has, the red and white stripes have been replaced with the gay pride flag’s stripes of rainbow.

Not just any gay pride rainbow, either; this one has eight stripes. _“It’s Gilbert Baker’s original design for the flag,”_ Shiro explained, backstage at Worlds this past spring, smiling and showing Keith the tattoo he’d gotten done on his right bicep. _“Pink for sexuality, and red for life. Orange stands for healing, yellow for funlight, green for nature. Then, turquoise is for magic, blue is for serenity, and purple is for spirit, or passion. The other pride rainbows are just as good, but this one’s my favorite.”_

So, naturally, that’s the flag that Shiro chose to bring out with him for this program. As the music swells to its conclusion—as the singers belt the final notes, naming Shiro as _“the Star-Spangled Man With A Plan!”_ —Shiro refuses to let anybody in the rink miss his flag. He skates so that everyone watching gets a good glimpse of those stripes, so nobody can deny what he did. When he whips into his final spin, the flag whirls behind him proudly, and when he finally comes to a stop, he switches his hands around, grabbing the flag by its lengthwise corners.

Holding his grin perfectly, his head and chest high, and his arms wide open, Shiro turns the his rainbow flag into a cape. The music dies, and before Keith knows what his body is doing, his hands start furiously clapping. No one else moves to join him, not that Keith can hear. Maybe they’re simply stunned by what they just watched, like Hunk and Lance must be, or maybe their stony silence comes from homophobia, racism, or the other bigotries that Shiro spat on, skating in Captain America cosplay like he did. Either way, Shiro deserves so much more for that program, so Keith throws himself into applauding. He leaps out of his seat, a cheer of Shiro’s name bursting out of his throat.

As Shiro’s grin melts into one of relief, as he looks right in Keith’s direction, the rest of the audience finally catches up. Thunderous applause rolls through the arena. More feet scrape along the floor and more asses pry themselves out of their seats. Hunk and Lance are among the first to join Keith, but thankfully, they aren’t the last.

To the tune of a well-earned standing ovation, Shiro bows. Maybe Keith’s mind insists on playing tricks with him, but he’d swear in a court of law that Shiro looks happier now than he has in _months_.

  


* * *

  


“Seriously, Shiro! The quiznakking _balls_ it takes to skate a program like that?” Whining excitedly, Lance flops onto one of the beds in the hotel room that Shiro’s sharing with Adam and Lotor. “Man, you are something else. You know that, right?”

Modest as ever, Shiro shrugs and gives Lance a polite smile. “Getting kicked out because of noise complaints would be something else, too,” he teases, so gently that most people might miss it. “So, thanks for the compliment, but how about we keep it down?”

Propping himself up just enough, Lance gives Shiro an energetic nod and mimes zipping his lips. Hunk, meanwhile, leans against the headboard that Keith assumes is Shiro’s, if only because his glasses case is closer to that bed. Meeting new people doesn’t always get along with Hunk’s nerves—much less meeting five internationally famous figure skaters (Shiro, Adam, Lotor, Allura, and Romelle) all at once, and only missing out on Johnny Weir because he had plans with family—but from the way the Big Man is smiling, Keith wouldn’t guess that Hunk has trouble with social anxiety.

The only thing that makes him falter is his proximity to Romelle, but given her skimpy tank-top, that’s probably a matter of politeness. From his seat at the room’s little table, opposite Shiro and with his own back to the wall, Keith spots Hunk’s eyes wandering down to Romelle’s cleavage more than once. Every single time, he stares for a moment, then blushes guiltily, immediately turns to the ceiling, and fusses with his sweatshirt like that will somehow get him to stop checking out her boobs.

Considering Romelle’s normal attitude about these kinds of things, she’d likely tell Hunk to look more closely, because her breasts are nice and she paid a lot of money for this cute bra. But that’s for the two of them to sort out on their own, if she ever catches him ogling.

For now, it’s more than enough for everyone to simply kick back in the room and relax. The performers need to rest before tomorrow’s show, while Hunk, Keith, and Lance are here because Shiro invited them. He tried to get them into the locker room following the show, and while Harvard’s campus security would’ve let that happen, Lotor’s and Allura’s personal details were significantly less than willing to allow anyone to join one of Daibazaal’s Princes and the Crown Princess of Altea. If they’d had time for thorough background checks, then maybe, Hunk, Keith, and Lance could’ve gotten in. As it stood, however, they had to wait. 

“Unfortunate side-effects of being royalty, I’m afraid.” Over on his and Adam’s bed, Lotor rests his head on the edge of the mattress. His thick, white-blond hair hangs to the carpet, and he looks impossibly peaceful as he runs his brush through it over and over and over again. “Normally, I would not have bothered with my own guards for this, but Sincline insisted on them.”

“He insisted because recent events have made them more necessary,” Allura points out primly, wilting against the headboard beside Adam. Tied back in a ponytail, her hair shines and billows behind her long, slender neck like a cotton-candy cloud of spun silver. “If my Father, yours, and the Altean parliament would simply collaborate on addressing the threat posed by the White Lions and the Fire of Purification.”

“Would that my Father could remove his head from his own rectum for long enough to care about said threat.”

“His own people have been put in danger, and they will be again.”

“I realize that, Allura, as does Sincline. Even my Mother realizes it, which I’m certain is one of the signs that Armageddon draws near—”

“ _Your_ God’s Armageddon,” Adam says, only getting halfway to his usual level of deadpan snark. “Or one of the Christian versions of Him, at any rate. I can’t keep all the nuances between them straight.”

“You cannot keep anything straight, Sunshine. Not to save your life, or mine, or Takashi’s, or those of your sisters…” Lotor trails off like he could go on but chooses not to, for the time being. “Regardless, one would dare hope that my Father would remember how to care for the people of Daibazaal, considering that my Mother pulled herself out of her work for long enough to help King Alfor devise plans for approaching the issues at hand, but…”

Romelle huffs. “But your Father has decided that ethnic supremacist terrorist groups are no concern of his? Because he has the grace, tact, and odor of the worst _takreylure_ , and he poses a far greater threat to the safety of his people?”

Keith’s ears prick up at the Altean word that she slipped in there. Learning the language has been a mixed bag for him—maybe it’s on the profs he’s had more than anything, maybe Lance has been right, when he’s said that Coran could teach Altean better than anyone at Michigan—but Keith definitely remembers _“takreylure.”_ He’s heard Lotor saying it about Maurice on more than one occasion. According to the pretty Prince, the word means, _“gangrene,” “necrotic flesh,”_ or, _“infected wound.”_

Which sounds about right for Maurice, if anyone asks Keith, but no one has, and no one should.

On the other bed, Lance gulps so hard, Keith can practically hear it. Looking over at Lotor and Adam, Lance can’t help his face from contorting with worry. His eyes go wide enough that his dread shocks straight down to the pit of Keith’s own chest. He gasps at seeing that on Lance’s face—thankfully, no one seems to notice—and Keith slouches onto his elbows as Lance starts rapid-fire prodding the others about whether or not Lotor and Allura are _really_ safe, and how can they be _sure_ that the Fire of Purification and the White Lions don’t have agents or cells operating in the US, and maybe they and Romelle should be staying at some high-security consulate.

Bowing his head, Keith cringes at the table. He says a silent prayer of thanks that no one notices what’s going on around his waistline right now, with him slouching how he is. The table’s in the way, and blessedly, most of Keith’s shirts forgive the current state of his body. Plus, he’s wearing enough of them to mostly hide the toll that spring semester’s finals took on his weight and the number that his intense round of summer classes did on his formerly slim stomach.

The waistband of his jeans, however, digs into the chub Keith hasn’t managed to shake off yet. True, they don’t fit as badly as they did when he started his Grand Prix Series prep diet, when he had to cram himself into them, yank them up his chunky thighs, and struggle to get them buttoned. But the fact is, Keith put on a good sixteen-and-a-half kilos—thirty-six pounds and change, by the Imperial system, like everything in America makes him use—by the time he noticed that he’d blown up and gained an undeniable little belly.

Before Keith, Hunk, and Lance left Ann Arbor to fly out here, the scale back at their apartment said that eleven of said pounds remain on Keith’s body, hanging around unwanted, despite the effort he’s already put into shaving them off. On one hand, he’d certainly hope that his jeans fit better on the other side of losing twenty-five pounds.

On the other hand, though, there’s only a month left before Keith has to be in Beijing for the Cup of China. He’ll be up against Shiro, Adam, Griffin, Lance, and that Ryan Kinkade guy from Team USA. As Keith’s jeans painfully remind him, snugging along his pudgy little belly and chunky thighs: he won’t stand a chance of making the Cup of China’s podium, much less getting to the Grand Prix Final, if he doesn’t lose this piggy gut and love-handles.

In the back of his mind, a voice that sounds an awful lot like Mom tells Keith to stop worrying so much about this. He’s been doing well in practices. Even with the extra weight trying to drag him down, he hasn’t thrown his jumps off too badly. Putting more effort into them like he has seems to be working—or anyway, it’s gotten Lance to commend Keith on what he sees as Keith’s new sense of panache. If he keeps things going as he has, then Keith could be looking at the best performance scores of his competitive career.

Besides, it’s only eleven pounds and Keith has almost four full weeks left to lose it. If he were in Skate America, he’d be screwed, but he can shave off eleven pounds by the Cup of China. Shiro and Allura could pull that off, easy. They’d—

A loud gasp clatters into Keith’s mind, derailing those thoughts. Something hits the table with a _thunk!_ He picks out the sound of someone trying their best not to hyperventilate, then a soft, almost squealing noise.

“Uh, Starlight?” Adam prods, cautiously. “You, erm? Are you… okay?”

“Uh huh.”

Still brushing his hair, Lotor drawls, “Do I need to arrange your boyfriend’s murder?”

“No, please no, I just?” Pale, wide-eyed, and frantically nodding, Shiro fumbles for his phone but can’t get himself to pick it up. “Somebody put video of my ‘Star-Spangled Man’ program up on Twitter. They tagged me _and_ Chris Evans. He, like? I think he _liked_ it?”

Keith hesitates, but with Shiro’s permission picks up the phone. Fortunately, it hasn’t gone to the lockscreen yet—and Keith can’t help whistling when the reality of what he’s looking at sinks in. There, right in Shiro’s notifications panel on Twitter, sits a reply from the official, Marvel Studios-employed Star-Spangled Man himself: _“@shiroxgurlx1573 @shirokashi Amazing! So honored to be tagged in this. What a great show, @shirokashi. Captain Rogers would be proud!”_

The room goes silent, when Keith finishes reading that tweet aloud. Reality takes a good minute or so to set in, but once it does—

“Ho. Lee. _Crow!_ ” Lance squeals, sitting up with a start and practically radiating excitement. “Shirito, that’s _so cool_. Chris Evans actually _saw_ your Cap program! He really _did_ like it! Did he retweet it? Keith, tell me honest, did—”

“I can’t,” Keith deadpans, handing the phone over when Shiro grabs at it. “See? No phone. Can’t tell you anything. But I’d guess he _probably_ did? I mean, he always seems really polite, so…?”

Thankfully, Romelle jumps in to save Keith from running out of things to say. Lotor pipes up after her, then Adam, Allura, and Hunk. Shiro comes in last, but he’s typing a reply to thank Chris Evans, so it’s only fair that he got distracted. Like magic, everything’s back to normal, with everyone chattering about all manner of fun things—what’s in store for the show tomorrow afternoon, what people are looking forward to in this season’s Grand Prix series, and what Hunk’s studying at Michigan since the other skaters already know that Keith’s double-majoring in History and Women’s/Gender Studies, like Mom and Kolivan before him, while Lance has been working on a double-major in Communications and Biology, Health, and Society.

But just when everything starts feeling more or less okay, Shiro’s phone buzzes, down on the table. He groans and winces when the ringtone starts singing, _“This tainted love you’ve given, I give you all a boy could give you—”_

“Hey, babe,” Shiro sighs. “…What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m glad to hear from you. …I just did an intense show, Maurice, and I’ve been in practice all week. I’m _tired_ , that’s all. …Oh my God, what? Are you— _No_. I _thanked_ Chris Evans. That was it, Maurice. He complimented my ‘Star-Spangled Man With A Plan’ program, so I _thanked_ him. It’s not _cheating_ ; it’s called being _polite_.”

Shoving himself up from the table, Shiro stretches out as if he’s getting ready for a fight. Some fan from Osaka gave him his black t-shirt this past spring, when they went to Nice to see Shiro skate at Worlds. Splashed across the chest sits the Japanese cover-art from Wham!’s “Last Christmas” single, featuring a young, grinning George Michael dolled up as Santa Claus and carrying a bag that overflows with presents. Maybe the fan misjudged Shiro’s size, or maybe Keith’s right about him losing weight, but as Shiro rolls his eyes and works a knot of tension in his back, Keith feels pretty sure that Shiro could shrink his shirt in the wash and it’d fit him better than it does right now.

Besides that, while he’s stretching, the hem rises high enough to let Keith see how low Shiro’s faded jeans ride on his sharp hips. Swallowing thickly, Keith wants to say something, anything. His throat burns, telling him to ask if Shiro’s okay, because he looks skinny, and if Maurice is stressing him out that badly—which isn’t really an _“if,”_ in Keith’s mind—then Shiro should dump him because God, he could have someone so much better.

“Just a sec, guys,” Shiro whispers before Keith can get his mouth around the words, covering his phone’s receiver with one hand. “I’m just gonna take this out in the hallway.”

Nobody objects, though it feels like everybody wants to, and when the door slams behind Shiro, Keith feels his heart stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out where it’s due: the “piggy gut and love-handles” bit was borrowed from one of Victor’s lines in the second episode of the English dub of YOI(—because the dub version provides good background noise while writing a YOI fusion AU).


	5. Ann Arbor, MI/Fukuoka—2013. Sochi—2014. Ann Arbor/Saitama—2014.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although previous chapters have danced around the myriad ways that Sendak and Shiro’s relationship is not a good one, this chapter gets a bit more explicit about that. It also has references to Shiro dumping Sendak, then taking him back after certain promises are made, which Lance compares to an off-screen abusive relationship (between his older brother, Marco, and an NPC ex-boyfriend).
> 
> There’s also some more chubby!Keith, in this chapter, though it’s still mostly slight. Keith’s anxiety, on the other hand, remains largely unchecked and he berates himself constantly throughout this chapter, over his weight and basically everything else. He and Shiro are both going to get help soon, I promise.…… There will just be further drama for them along the way.

To the surprise of no one but Lance, he and Keith don’t make the 2013-14 Grand Prix Final.

“Which is an absolute travesty-and-a-half,” Lance groans for the umpteenth time today, flopping on the kitchen table while Keith argues with the Internet about getting their livestream of the gala to work. “I busted my ass this series and what did I get for it?”

“The results that fit your scores? Same as everybody?” Glancing up from the laptop and his oversized bowl of shrimp-and-mushroom ramen, Keith shrugs. No, he doesn’t _enjoy_ laying out hard truths like this, but this new Thing of Lance’s has gotten beyond ridiculous. “ _Lansha_ , you’re like family to me because you refuse to be anything less than that—”

“Damn right I do. _Somebody’s_ gotta look out for you, ‘cause you _suck_ at—”

“But you haven’t shut up about the alleged unfairness since the results of the Rostelecom Cup, and I’m _sick of it_.”

Lance pouts up at him as if Keith said he couldn’t have ice cream before dinner. “Well, I’m sick of the livestream not working. And of not making the Grand Prix Final. And of Coran and Thace not letting us go watch it, at least.”

“It’s in Fukuoka. In _Japan_. We’ve got finals. We’ve thrown ourselves off enough, just watching the actual competition.” Not that Keith’s slept well since the NHK Trophy, but that’s beside the point. “Anyway, quit distracting me—”

“Quit making it so easy—”

“Look, the fact is: I only made the podium at the Cup of China, and I only got bronze. I basically _bombed_ my second competition in this series; the only person I beat in the standings was _Fernández_. And you…” Huffing, Keith points his fork at Lance. “You didn’t make the podium at the Cup of China _or_ the Rostelecom Cup. Plus, as obnoxious as Griffin is when he wins? He _did_ skate better than you at both of them—”

“His performances _blow_ ,” Lance whines. “Every time he skates, it’s like watching a really angry feral cat with, like, mange and stuff? And it rolls around on a photo of you, hissing and spitting and pissing on it, then smirking like it’s _so clever_ and somebody should give it the fucking Fancy Feast, now.”

“Dude, _I’m_ the one who Griffin picks on like he’s the Second Coming of Draco Malfoy and he’s appointed me to be his Scarhead Potter. Even I can admit that he’s a good skater.” Finally, the livestream connects, and right on time to watch Mao Asada’s program. Since Lance is a fan, Keith angles the laptop more toward him—but he doesn’t hold back from saying, “Look, your performance scores are always great. But you get so caught up in the drama and the flair that you make these little baby mistakes. Those slip-ups all snowball, and either you mess up major technical elements, even when you _know_ how to do them—like your quad toe loops—or the cumulative loss of points drags your score down.”

Although he doesn’t sit up straight or lift his head off the table, Lance hums as if he’s giving this idea thought. “Yeah, I guess little things can add up pretty easily, huh. And I mean, I pretty much _have_ to believe that, when it’s coming from you. ‘Cause a lot of folks would just be babbling out their asses, but I _know_ that you know what you’re talking about. Better than most, for sure.”

Before Keith can ask what Lance means by that, he spells it out by prodding the pudge that pooches out around Keith’s tummy. Lance’s finger sinks so far into it, Keith wants to scream; he only holds himself back because they got up at two on a Sunday morning for this livestream, and Keith doesn’t want to wake Hunk. But he also doesn’t want Lance to keep touching him. At least, Lance could stop touching the places that have taken the worst hits as Keith’s gained back most of the weight he lost before. Between the pressure in his chest from choking back that wail, the sleep-deprivation the past few days have left him with, and the way his stomach _jiggles_ when Lance keeps poking him, Keith could be sick.

“ _Stop_ ,” he hisses, smacking Lance’s wrist away. Hunching over only pushes his little belly further toward his lap, but sitting up properly would take energy Keith doesn’t have. As the hem of his t-shirt rides up his chub, his face and neck flush hotter than they keep the campus library, this time of year. “I already know I need to get back on my diet, okay? Five Stars are right after Christmas. At least I can slim down a _little_ before Lotor totally humiliates me in the placements, right?”

“Wait, _what_?” Lance balks, leaping off the table, shocked into sitting up straight. As if he has no idea what Keith’s talking about, he gapes and shakes his head. “That wasn’t—what are you— _Keithito_ , seriously, what are you—”

“Like you don’t have _working eyes_.”

“Well, yeah, of course I do, but—”

“So, you’ve obviously _seen_ me plumping up again, this whole past _month_ —”

“Okay, fine, I have, but I still don’t get what you’re—like, what you _think_ I’m—”

“I already checked the scale, okay?” Ducking his chin, Keith’s glad he didn’t bother tying his hair back after his wakeup shower. It’s mostly dried out by now, and the fluffy curtain of black puts a convenient shield between him and Lance while Keith confesses, “Before I woke you up, I looked, and…? Like, it was bad _enough_ I didn’t lose all the weight before the Cup of China or the NHK Trophy. But now—fuck my **_life_** , _Lansha_ —we’re only two months out from Sochi, and I’m almost back up to eighty-two kilos—like, I’m at a hundred-eighty pounds, I’ll probably hit eighty-two kilos by _Monday_ —and figure skaters aren’t supposed to _look_ like this, right? So, I don’t need you _reminding_ me of how _fat_ I’m getting.”

Whatever Keith says that knocks the loudmouth out of Lance, he’s grateful for it. Making himself inhale deep and exhale slow, Keith props himself up on his elbows and tugs on his hair. If Lance were babbling at him, even if he meant to apologize, then regaining any semblance of composure would be at least twenty times harder for Keith. It’s difficult enough to calm himself down while his mind insists on thrashing, reminding him that he has barely twenty days until Five Stars (the “nationals” shared by Altea, Daibazaal, Marmora, Olkarion, and Nalquod). After that, it’s barely two weeks before Europeans. Then, the Olympic opening ceremony is on the sixth of February—but of course, that only matters if Keith makes it to Sochi.

Dimly, Keith hears protests from the reasonable internal voice of his that sounds so much like Kolivan, it’s almost as good as having the real one here. Marmora doesn’t have too many skaters; that’s why they’re part of the Five Stars. Even without making this season’s GPF, even without slimming down as much as he should have, Keith’s done okay in his Challenger Series competitions. Given the base technical scores of his programs for Five Stars and Europeans, he _should_ satisfy the minimum requirements to qualify, so there’s almost no chance that the OSM, Marmora’s ISU-approved federation, _won’t_ choose Keith for Sochi.

They _could_ still pass him over, though. Unless Keith slims down enough by Europeans, the OSM’s board members could decide that he isn’t a serious athlete, or that he’d be a risk to Team Marmora at the Games, or that he sets a bad example. Any number of factors could come up, then Keith would get left out of Sochi, all because he let himself go in ways that _Shiro_ would never do, and ate his fucking feelings instead of training harder like he should have when he knows how easily he puts on weight, and subsequently got _chubby_.

At least Lance stays quiet while Keith gets himself back together. It feels like that takes forever, but by the time Keith looks back up to the laptop, Adam’s just taking the ice. His violet tux-looking jacket fits him well, and as a midtempo, lilting rock ballad starts, Adam winks and blows a kiss directly at one of the cameras.

“Ten bucks says Lotor’s blushing his head off backstage,” Keith says with a huff.

Limply, Lance nods and supposes Keith’s right… but he doesn’t take the bet, or counter with one of his own. For Adam’s program—less technically intense than he usually skates, even in exhibitions, but for once, Adam’s feeling the song with his entire body, the way that Allura, Lotor, and Shiro do—Lance only stares at the screen. Sometimes, he sighs wistfully, the way he used to do over Jenny Shabon, his crush who played Audrey when they did _Little Shop of Horrors_ in senior year. Other times, Lance breathily sings along, voice lilting through, _“But then I fooled around and fell in love…”_

Huffing sympathetically, Keith rests his cheek in his palm. Christ, Lance must mean that line of the song, with how he’s watching Adam. On top of that, the way he whimpers as Adam leaves the ice kicks Keith in the emotional balls. Pining over Shiro is bad enough; all Keith has to deal with is the fact that Shiro is so far out of his league. Lance has to feel like he isn’t good enough for Adam _and_ watch Adam skate a program that’s obviously meant for Lotor. Worse, Adam and Lotor did some kind of polyamorous thing with Shiro, but this doesn’t guarantee that they’d want to do it again.

When Virtue and Moir take the ice, Keith can’t handle the dead air anymore, and his nerves can’t handle Lance’s kicked puppy expression. Gently rubbing Lance’s shoulder, Keith sighs. Words ought to get sued in international criminal court for how difficult they can be sometimes, usually when Keith needs them most.

“Not that our love life situations are the same or whatever?” Inauspicious start, but it’s better than nothing, so Keith soldiers on: “But I’m sorry. For how much it’s gotta hurt. Just know that Adam would be fucking lucky to have you, okay?”

“Well, Shiro would be lucky to have you, _hermano_.” Which would sound nicer if Lance could clear some of the angst off his face. As he looks up at Keith, though, Lance looks like he’s two steps off from crying. “Look, I… I’m sorry about poking your tummy, okay? Like, yeah, I know what the body standards are in our line of work, but compared to _most_ people? You don’t have _that_ much of a tummy. It’s a _cute_ tummy, too. Plus, you have this cool vibe that, like, _dares_ people to say anything about anything, especially about your weight, so?”

His shoulders quirk and he makes a sound like _I don’t know_. “You always seem above-it-all? Like you only care about your chub or lack of it for skating reasons. I just… I didn’t think you were actually sensitive about it, man. And I’m sorry.”

Keith needs two deep breaths, first—but he manages to say, “It’s okay, _Lansha_. Just keep it in mind, yeah?”

“Got it, _cisnito_.”

Whether Lance means it or not—he probably does—it helps to hear that particular Spanish endearment. _“Cisne”_ meaning, _“swan,”_ plus an affectionate diminutive ending. As Lance explained after the first time he called Keith by that name, _“You’re just like a swan, you know? You’re beautiful and graceful, but also, you could totally murder someone and everyone would be like, ‘Oh wow, that was so pretty, what kind of artistry, holy crow, can you even believe.’”_

Not that Keith particularly wants to murder anyone, excluding the rat bastard who purports to be Shiro’s boyfriend—but it’s nice to know that Lance thinks he could get away with it.

About halfway into Romelle’s program, Lance heaves a sigh. “So, when does your Sochi prep diet start, exactly?”

“I’m shooting for Monday?” Keith ought to take it more seriously, considering what’s on the line for him, but for one thing, it’s going on three AM. For another, he’s slouched at the kitchen table in a t-shirt that won’t stay all the way down on his stomach, polishing off a bowl of shrimp-and-mushroom ramen with more calories than he should be eating at the moment. There’s no sense in bullshitting about how he’s starting everything right now. “I mean, we’ve got that leftover pizza in the fridge still. Anyway, I’m tired and I never make good food-related choices when I’m tired. Better to wait until I’ve slept okay and got my head back together.”

“Okay, ‘cause…” Shooting Keith another expression like someone drop-kicked his favorite puppy into traffic. “Lotor’s skating after Romelle. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried being in love with two people at once, and worse, they’re totally perfect together? But it _sucks_. And I really don’t wanna eat my self-pity ice cream alone.”

  


* * *

  


Backstage at Sochi’s Iceberg Skating Palace, even as the twenty-second Winter Olympics draw to a close, Keith can’t get his head to stop spinning for more than ten seconds at a time. He can’t steady his nerves, can’t make his skin stop itching like his body is too snug for his soul, can’t calm down at all. Hoping for the best and expecting nothing, he goes through his usual rounds of stretches, forces himself to take deep breaths, silently repeats Shiro’s old mantra over and over and over— _“Patience yields focus… Patience yields focus… Patience yields focus…”_

Still, Keith can’t blame himself for this, given where he is and the unreality that won’t stop nagging at him. For the past week, he hasn’t stopped feeling nauseated. If his stomach would cut to the point and toss itself all over the floor already, Keith could handle that. He wouldn’t like being sick, but he’d prefer that to waiting, wondering if or when something might happen. He could also deal with finding out that he didn’t make it to Sochi after all, or with waking up to find that the past seventeen days have been a massive fever-dream, some vision sent to torment Keith by reminding him that he didn’t earn the honor of a spot at the 2014 Winter Games.

Except Keith _did_ earn that spot, or the OSM decided that he did. Morning after morning, he keeps waking up not in Thaldycon, snuggled up with Kosmo, but in Russia, faced with the reality of where he is and the lack of visible explanations for how he made it here. The nausea never makes good on its threats to make him sick; it only makes his nerves claw up his insides, promising that he might vomit if he doesn’t perfectly follow a set of rules that nobody’s explained.

Somehow, by the good grace of something he can’t identify, Keith makes it to Lance’s program without passing out. Since Lance is the first men’s singles skater taking the ice on his own, this doesn’t count as an accomplishment, if you ask Keith. To the tune of an upbeat, salsa-influenced pop number, Lance wriggles around the ice, making the crowd roar with each swish of his arms and twitch of his hips—which, if they’re anything like Shakira’s lyrics, apparently don’t lie. Here’s Lance, skating like he never has before, getting cheers and applause like he deserves, having set new personal best scores and done Cuba proud.

Meanwhile, Keith’s hunched in and hugging himself, nestled between Allura and Kinkade in the group huddled around the TVs, digging his fingertips into his elbow and waiting for the pain of his grip to ground him any.

As Lance lands a flawless triple flip, someone gasps. Not Allura; she’s right up by Keith’s ear and the sound’s too soft for that. Not Kinkade either, though he does give up a gentle round of clapping. Keith doesn’t find the source until they whistle for Lance’s triple flip, triple toe loop combo: with his eyes bugging out and his chin propped on Adam’s shoulder, Lotor ogles the TV like it’s spewing the secret to life, the universe, and everything. Adam doesn’t look much better off, glued to the screen while his eyebrows arch so high, it’s a miracle that they stay on his forehead.

 _Huh,_ Keith muses. _That might develop into something interesting._

Considering the Adam-and-Lotor of it all, “interesting” is Keith’s conservative estimate. Regardless of what happens there or doesn’t, he elbows away from the others as soon as Lance finishes skating. Thankfully, they let him go without a protest. Of course, why _would_ any of them object to letting Keith slink away to one of the chairs by the wall? Obviously, they wouldn’t, because no one did, because no matter what the OSM decided, Keith doesn’t belong here—not really—not with all these _real_ skaters, who don’t _need_ to watch their weights as much as Keith does, who don’t need to wonder when everyone’s going to wake up and figure out that they’re a fraud, who—

Keith gasps as a hand drops to his shoulder. Shocks jolt down his back, jerk him upright. He whips to his left, frowns vacantly at the hand. For a moment, while he tries to process what’s happening, the hand seems to hover in the air before him— _Oh, wait, okay.…_

Whoever touched him, they’ve pulled it back; that makes sense. Whether they’re friend or enemy, they’re holding up their big, broad palm like a surrender. Black leather cuff bracelets encircle both their wrists, silver studs gleaming like broken glass under the overhead fluorescent lights. Tracing his eyes around the hand, Keith spots black fingerless gloves. Black fishnet clings to tawny biceps, barely covering a sharp collarbone and pecs that make Keith’s nerves scream at him to reach out and touch them. Below that sits a black leather corset and one of the most waspish waistlines Keith’s ever seen in his life— _Wait, no way, could it really be…?_ —

Slowly, Keith looks up and blinks at the interloper’s face, waiting for his brain to kindly catch the fuck up with everything. In silence, he soaks up the details, from the full lips to the diamond-carved cheekbones, from the black hair, teased and primped and fluffed so that something like a spitcurl droops over the middle of their forehead, to the tender, dove-grey eyes, surrounded by clouds of glittering black shadow, winged with artfully smudged black liner—

“Oh my _God_ ,” Keith sighs, mind careening into the realization. “Sorry—Shiro, I—no, fuck, I don’t—I’m _so_ sorry?”

“It’s okay,” Shiro tells him gently, like a promise. “I saw you over here by yourself. I just wanted to see if you’re okay?”

Instinctively, Keith nods—but soon enough, it turns into shaking his head. Which isn’t right of him to do, honestly. Not to anybody who’d reach out to him, but _especially_ not to Shiro. Much like his corset, Shiro’s pants gleam like someone painted him into them by spilling oil paint. His costume makes him look like the living embodiment of poison—and there’s a reason for that. Despite how much Keith wants to trust Shiro’s kind smile, he knows the program that Shiro got ready for this exhibition. With how much passion he puts into his programs, there’s gotta be a reason that he’s skating to “Tainted Love.”

But Shiro won’t back down from helping until Keith explains _something_ about what’s going on. So, he shrugs and tells Shiro, “I’m just—it’s performance anxiety, I guess? Nothing serious. I can handle it.”

“If you’re sure.” That soft smile makes Keith want to claw his way out of his skin. “You don’t need to pretend, if you aren’t.”

“I mean, I could say the same to _you_.” Swallowing a groan at his own bullshit, Keith forces himself to sit up straight. He doesn’t hold it for two seconds before the energy seeps out and he slumps back into the wall. Gulping, he makes himself meet Shiro’s eyes, since that’s only fair when he’s saying, “When you were with Maurice? Earlier today? I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your breakfast, but… He was loud, and he seemed—like, just—he seemed—”

“Like a giant brat who thinks that he can play the victim?” Hearing that, Keith nods. Thank God, Shiro voiced exactly what Keith’s thinking and got Keith out of being held accountable for those feelings. With a somber huff, Shiro adds, “More specifically, I’d say Maurice looks like a man who’s getting dumped tonight. But that’s only my read of things.”

Keith should have a snappy retort ready—but he chokes on his own breath. As his brain fumbles, struggling to wrap itself around what Shiro just dropped on him, Keith tries to ignore the feeling that flares up loudest: if Shiro goes through with what he’s implying, right now—if he actually dumps Maurice after the Champions’ Gala—then he’ll be single. Not that it should matter, when he’d never accept a date from Keith anyway—

“Wait, what, are you…” Keith’s mouth splutters to life before he’s ready. Shaking his head doesn’t get any of his mental wires back where they belong—but at least he manages to spit out, “Are you serious? About leaving him?”

Shrugging this oddity off like an old coat, as if it doesn’t even matter, Shiro says, “He spent the whole Grand Prix Final nagging me for nudes. Y’know, after telling me that he couldn’t get out of these plans or those plans, so he couldn’t come—never mind how I always try to make his games—and all that. He’s supposed to be busy, but here I am in Fukuoka, wondering if anyone from Mom’s family might’ve come up from Kyoto without telling me, and…” Shiro lowers his voice, half-grumbling and half-sneering. “‘I _know_ you’re at a competition, Takashi, and it’s _so. rude._ that you aren’t in my bed, please send dick pics.’”

“God, did you send him any? Like, did he ever shut up? Or did you have to _appease_ him first?”

“Technically, yeah, I did send him dick pics.” A bemused frown from Keith makes Shiro snicker. Smirking, he explains, “First, I sent him this silly picture of a cat trying to pose seductively, with, ‘Draw me like one of your French cats’ written on it. Then, he wouldn’t drop it, so I googled up spotted dick—as in, the food, like, British fruit custard thing—and I saved a bunch of photos from image search. So, when Maurice started up again and wouldn’t shut up about wanting to see _my_ dick…”

Keith snorts, then checks the room, eyes darting over every corner, every potential exit. If anyone noticed that sound, they keep it to themselves. More importantly, Maurice hasn’t materialized out of thin air, ready to fight his way over and publicly claim Shiro as _his_ , or whatever Maurice gets off on doing.

“I thought it was pretty funny, too. Maurice… disagreed, but when doesn’t he.” The roll of Shiro’s eyes desperately wants Keith to think he’s only exasperated and annoyed. The way his shoulders sag, though, betray how badly he needs an emotional nap. “Anyway, then? It gets better. Ever since we got here, this whole time, he’s been a _nightmare_. This morning, he tried to say that wanting to get more practice in on my program? Meant I wanted to skip his gold medal match against Team Canada. Before, he had a tantrum because men’s singles free skates? Were happening on Valentine’s Day.”

“What, like he even _wanted_ to do anything for that?” Keith would do so many, but that’s beside the point. “I mean, seriously? Maurice and sweet, cute, conventional romance go together about as well as me and Griffin. Full offense meant to your _boyfriend_ , Shiro? But I don’t believe he has a romantic bone in his body.”

“He _would_ , if he ever let me top,” Shiro says so offhandedly that Keith almost misses it. “Not that I’d take him up on that, if he ever offered? Like, maybe, just to prove that I _could_ top him? But Maurice is the most aggressive power-top I’ve ever met in my life, so that’s never gonna happen.”

Idly, Shiro glances over that the TVs. More specifically, he glances at Lotor and Adam—but they don’t notice, wrapped up in watching Duhamel and Radford, the fifth-place pairs skaters from Team Canada. Despite having no reason for this, Keith’s face flushes warm. Hoping to conceal his candy apple red blush, he ducks his chin. God, how stupid is he? Shiro probably only expects a cheeky remark about what he likes in bed, from one or two of the people who would know. It’s not like Keith’s a virgin, and he’s never getting anywhere with Shiro, so what does he have to blush about?

In Keith’s position, Lance would probably quip something to the tune of, _“Oh, like you’ve ever topped anybody before”_ —but Keith would prefer not to be that presumptuous, both about Shiro’s sex life and what he, Keith, is or isn’t allowed to comment on.

“Anyway…” Quirking his shoulders, Shiro lets his legs sprawl out ahead of him. “Regardless of reality’s opinion, Maurice thinks that he is _very_ romantic. In his defense, he _was_ , back when things first started between us. Hasn’t been true of him for a while by now, but…”

As he lets his head wilt back into the wall, Shiro practically radiates exhaustion. Better to get it out now, before he has to hit the ice again, than let it throw off his performance. Still, Keith’s heart thrashes against his rib-cage, aching with fire, with a _need_ to somehow make Shiro feel better. To manage that, though, Keith would need to say something. He’d need the capability of saying anything. Out of nowhere, though, his voice withers up, while his tongue cements itself to the roof of his mouth.

Even if Keith had a handle on his capacity for speech, he has no ideas about what he could tell Shiro, right now. Aside from the idea that Shiro may soon be single, the only happy thing that comes to mind is how Keith finally lost all the weight he wanted. This morning, before he grabbed a couple PowerBars and went to squeeze in his own last-minute practice, he saw a bright red _“68 kg”_ on the scale that he smuggled in his suitcase, despite Thace telling him to leave it in Ann Arbor. Having figured out how to switch between metric and Imperial, Keith checked his weight twice, and sure enough: the scale showed him _“150 lbs.”_

That’s nothing of interest to Shiro, though. At best, it’d constitute awkward over-sharing that he didn’t sign up for hearing. At worst, it could trip one of the personal wires that Shiro doesn’t like to talk about, and hurt him instead of helping.

With no other ideas, Keith gently curls his hand around Shiro’s shoulder. Since Shiro doesn’t protest, Keith gives him a squeeze.

“I can’t do this with him anymore, Keith.” Hugging himself, Shiro leans into Keith’s touch. “Everything I give him, he’s never satisfied. No matter what I do, he makes me miserable. He threw a tantrum over that Instagram Live I did about my House Lannister short program, like? I try to have fun about responding to all that, ‘Oh, he’s a vapid, idiot pretty boy who’s never read the _Song of Ice and Fire_ books and only watches _Game of Thrones_ for the hot dudes and gay sex’ crap—and Maurice flipped out because I wasn’t with him, down at the Ice Dome.”

With a huff, Shiro starts spinning one of his bracelets. “He hadn’t even taken the ice against Team Czech Republic, yet. But I wasn’t swooning all over his practice, so…” He quirks his shoulders without trying to shake Keith’s hand off. “Like, I started saying, ‘Chris Evans wouldn’t treat me this way’ as a joke, after he liked my ‘Star-Spangled Man’ program. But over breakfast, I was DMing with Lena Headey—y’know, because she liked my short program, and she wants to do lunch when I’m back in California, and she said Obaasan could come, too—and Maurice starts grumbling about how he puts up with so much, and why don’t I care about his feelings, don’t I _know_ how he worries about me sleeping around—”

“But you would _never cheat_ on anybody.” Keith doesn’t know where his voice returned from, but if it’s decided to exist, he won’t argue. “Anyway, uh? I’m sure she’s real nice, but? Lena Headey is a woman, and you’re, like…”

“Gayer than a sparkly, Elton John unicorn that exclusively romances other boy unicorns?”

“That…” Keith nods, his own half-baked comparison forgotten. “Yeah, that’s about what I meant.”

“Yeah, well, add that to the pile of totally unreasonable garbage that Maurice dumps on my shoulders.” Inhaling deeply, Shiro drums his right hand’s fingers along his bicep. “Anyway, I realized while he was acting like that? I mean it, when I say that Chris Evans wouldn’t treat me like this. It’s not a joke to be like, ‘Peter Dinklage and Kit Harington wouldn’t treat me like this,’ either. If any of them even remotely liked guys?” Shiro rolls his eyes up at the ceiling. “I’d be all over them, and they would never treat me the way Maurice does.”

“They wouldn’t. Nobody should.” All but outright clinging to Shiro’s shoulder, trying to ignore the desire to just kiss him already, Keith tells his friend, “Maurice _should_ get dumped, after everything he’s put you through. You deserve somebody who _values_ you. _Respects_ you. Somebody who sees you as the amazing, talented, loyal person you are, not just a pretty toy to flash around or a convenient hole for his dick.”

That makes Shiro laugh, and the smile he gives Keith is pure, unfiltered sunshine, spelling out exactly how much Shiro needed to hear that, making Keith’s insides writhe because he desperately wants Shiro, wants to be Shiro’s and have Shiro be his, which will never happen because how could it ever. Why would Shiro ever look twice at Keith, much less see him as boyfriend material? Stupid question, simple answer: Shiro _wouldn’t_.

At least Shiro remembers that he wants to watch Kinkade’s program. Having that much raw goodness focusing on him makes Keith’s nausea return with a vengeance. He needs a break if he wants to get through his “Go Your Own Way” skate without keeling over dead.

  


* * *

  


“Three o’clock on Sunday morning never should’ve been invented,” Lance whines, folding his arms on the kitchen table and pillowing his head on them. “Seriously, can we, like? Complain to anybody about this? Does God accept constructive criticism?”

Keith doesn’t look up from fiddling with the laptop. “I’m just glad we made it home in time.”

“Well, I‘m glad you remembered and I stayed sober enough to drive.” As he nuzzles his forearms, trying to get himself comfortable, Lance looks like he could fall asleep. “Like, I know we’re in college and everything, and I know we’re legal? But how can you be, like… How are you even…” Huffing, he kicks at the floor. Still slick with rain, his sneaker squeaks on the linoleum. As if it’s going to help him get his brain to cooperate, Lance sits up and props his cheek in his palm. “How much beer did you pound back tonight, _Keithito_?”

Flipping his long bangs off his face, Keith makes a noncommittal sound. “Stopped counting. Barely feel anything, though.”

It’s true: Keith’s drunk enough that he doesn’t feel how drunk he is. Once he’s got the livestream going—fortunately, they tune in during Duhamel and Radford’s pairs skate, so they haven’t missed watching Adam, Allura, Lotor, Romelle, or Shiro—Keith wobbles up from the table. Leaving Lance to his own devices, he staggers over to Hunk’s room, but finds himself blinking at a sign, handwritten in black Sharpie, on the back of some flyer that Hunk saved from the student center: _“Pidge said she’d record the gala for me. You guys have fun, please let me sleep”_ with a heart and a cartoon sun with a smiley face.

Dimly, Keith wonders if introducing his Ann Arbor friends to his friends back home was a good life-choice. But as the belch he muffles behind his wrist reminds him, Keith hasn’t made any good life-choices tonight. With the warm, comfortable feeling backing him up, Keith snags his plush red lion from his room and a pint of his peanut butter cup Ben and Jerry’s from the freezer. Dropping back into his seat, Keith digs in. He can feel Lance staring at him instead of watching Mao Asada take the ice, but unless Lance decides to speak up, intoxication exempts Keith from caring.

They make it all the way through Romelle’s program, a spritely performance to some instrumental swing music that Keith remembers being in a _Harry Potter_ , in more or less perfect silence. Keith gets through about two-thirds of his pint without Lance owning the way he’s staring or explaining what he’s on about. Finally, as they wait for Lotor to take the ice, Lance lets a sigh burst out of his chest like an overly dramatic gunshot.

“Okay, I’ve been keeping my mouth shut ‘cause you’re sensitive about your weight?” Holding up both hands in preemptive surrender, he says, “You know you’re gonna need a whole new prep diet if you keep going like this, right?”

“Already do,” Keith mumbles around a spoonful of ice cream. “‘s not as bad as it could be—”

“But you went at the pizza really hard tonight. And the onion rings. And a cheeseburger the size of your head. _And_ the beer—”

“We should’ve made it to Worlds. Both of us. We _killed it_ in Sochi—”

“All I’m saying? Is that tonight hasn’t been the only night you’ve done some shit like this. More like, ‘part of a pattern,’ instead of, ‘an isolated thing.’” Keeping his hands up, Lance arches both eyebrows as if daring Keith to argue with him. When all he gets is an unimpressed look as Keith slurps up another heaping spoonful, he flops onto his elbows with a pout. “Well, can you at least tell me if I need to be _concerned_ or not?”

Keith shrugs. “Yeah, I’ve gained back, like, five-and-a-half kilos? Little bit over. Closer to six. But I figured it out: I’ll indulge all I want ‘til finals are over, spend summer training my ass off—literally—then be back in fighting shape for the—”

“I mean about _you, the person,_ dumb-fuck!” Lance slaps the table. As if he’s going to magically make his point, he scowls with a hurricane’s intensity. “Probably the only reason you don’t have _alcohol poisoning_ right now? Is because you pigged out on everything—”

“I dunno if alcohol poisoning works that way—”

“Well, I don’t know how you’re still conscious. Or why you’re doing this. Or whether I should be, like—”

“Shiro got back together with Maurice.”

Scraping the bottom of his pint, Keith sighs. He lets that admission hang between them, itching to explain himself, but the rules of politeness and respect for Lance’s crush dictate that Keith should wait until Lotor finishes his program. Keith’s heard the song before—according to Lance, it’s “Grey Gardens” by Rufus Wainwright; Shiro recommended it to Keith after the Cup of China in 2012—but he never would’ve pegged it as a song Lotor would consider skating to. That he performs it so well—truly embodying the song’s yearning, innocent sound; seeming to blossom through all his spins and jumping like a fairy prince or some kind of forest nymph—means Keith might need to admit: he’s misjudged Lotor as a skater.

By the time Lotor’s collecting the purple bouquets fans threw to him, Keith’s ice cream is gone. While he’s tossing the empty container and getting himself a pint of Phish Food, Lance clears his throat.

“So, uh…” His fingertips drum impatiently on the table. “What were you saying about Shiro and his ex?”

“Not his ex anymore,” Keith points out, shaking his head and tearing open his new ice cream. Everything he’s saying weighs in his lungs like bricks of frozen lead, heavier than he’s made his swollen stomach. God, he’ll hurt for this later—already, he wishes that he could kick his own ass for eating so much—but there’s gotta be _some_ way to distract himself from the ache of knowing that something has gone so horribly, awfully wrong with the world and it made Shiro take Maurice back.

Dragging a hand down his cheek, Lance splutters wordlessly, until—“But what about all the reasons why he _dumped_ Maurice?”

“The fucker showed up at Mountain View Arena while Shiro was visiting Adam. He got Shiro black roses, like he likes, and had this whole spiel about how he’s sorry, and he’ll change, and he still loves Shiro, so please, take him back.” Keith huffs, forgetting all notions of putting his Phish Food away instead of eating it. “I guess he agreed to go to counseling, but…”

“Yeah, Marco’s one boyfriend said _he’d_ go to counseling, too.” Lance grimaces, and given what little Keith knows about that particular older Esparza sibling and his ex, it’s a miracle Lance isn’t getting physically ill. “Except it didn’t work, and he lied his ass off to that poor counselor, and then, Marco wound up in the ER with fractured ribs, a broken wrist, and a dislocated shoulder.”

Vaguely, Keith considers pointing out that Maurice and Marco’s ex-boyfriend are not the same person, so things _could_ end up going better for Shiro. Still, when Shiro takes the ice, Keith can’t help feeling like his song choice—“When Doves Cry”—is probably an omen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two quick notes: firstly, one of the friends who looked this fic over for me, Alex/genovianprince, needed clarification about where, _“Lansha”_ comes from, when Keith uses that name for Lance.
> 
> TL;DR: it’s an affectionate diminutive nickname, like Lance calls his friends, “Keithito,” “Shirito,” “Allurita,” etc. However, since Keith is of mixed Japanese, Korean, and Galra descent, and more specifically since he spent his childhood and early adolescence in Marmora, he doesn’t use the Spanish forms those nicknames. Instead, Keith uses the Galran language rules for that, which I vaguely adapted from the different ways that you make affectionate diminutives in Russian, since this reality’s Daibazaal and Marmora are in southeastern Eurasia, close enough to Russia that the rise of the USSR was a serious and very immediate problem.
> 
> Second note: Alex/genovianprince is also the one who originally came up with Lance’s thing of calling Keith a swan, because he’s graceful but also deadly. Thank you for letting me borrow that, hun. ♡♡


	6. Barcelona—2014.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Sendak does not appear on-screen, in this chapter, his words very much do. Toward the end, there’s a quote of his from an interview with ESPN, in which he is blatantly lying about the state of his and Shiro’s relationship, and generally being morally reprehensible and pretty gross.

For what must be about the thirty-second time today, Shiro reminds himself that most people do not sigh in anything like happiness when they check their phones and don’t find any messages from their significant others. _Most_ people who have romantic feelings for anyone, or feelings of powerful, not necessarily romantic love? They see texts or voicemails from their partners, or queerplatonic partners, or even crushes they aren’t dating, and sunshiny feelings wash over them or bubble up in their chests.

Used to be, messages from Maurice could get that reaction out of Shiro, even when all his _“boyfriend”_ had for him was a laundry list of excuses for why he couldn’t make one of Shiro’s competitions. Now, though, a warm flood of relief almost bowls Shiro over when the only notification he missed while practicing was a Twitter DM from George.

On top of everything else—as if Shiro hasn’t gotten enough headaches from Maurice and the state of their relationship; as if he hasn’t earned the right to sigh heatedly while he helps himself to a seat near the rink and taps out a reply—the fact that George sent a Twitter DM instead of a text? Speaks volumes about how far Shiro and Maurice’s relationship has veered from and of the normal courses that most people and their significant others take. Whatever anyone wants to call this, however they want to judge Maurice’s intentions or the effects his actions have had on Shiro, most people _do not_ need to hide communication with their friends.

Inhaling deeply, Shiro pockets his phone and forces himself to look back toward the ice. George couldn’t make it to Barcelona for the GPF, which is fair enough, but staring for too long at his DMs might make Shiro start dwelling on other, even less pleasant aspects of his current situation. For now, if Shiro can’t get out of his head—because doing that before the exhibition gala wouldn’t help him—then he can at least try to focus on something that doesn’t leave him feeling powerless.

Something like Keith, for instance. Or like the way Keith’s skating. Head bowed, he stares at his skates—or possibly has his eyes closed; Shiro can’t tell, from this distance, not even with his contacts in. Whichever option gets closer to the truth, Keith holds his arms out, struggling to maintain balance as he hops and pivots through a step-sequence that looks far more difficult than Keith usually opts for. The way he moves his feet makes Shiro wrinkle his nose. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but this kind of intricate footwork is the sort that Keith usually grouses over, when Thace hands it to him for a program. Keith _can_ skate this way, but it doesn’t come to him as easily as jumps do.

Watching him work through the program, though, Shiro can practically hear the music that Keith might have in mind for this. Something mid-tempo—he doesn’t move quickly enough for Shiro to think the song truly counts as “upbeat”—and smooth, powerful, probably with a good rhythm. Whatever it is, though, Keith’s decided that to follow his step-sequence with a jump-combo, like he did to close out his short program to that string quartet cover of “Enter Sandman.” Probably, he’ll go for a triple axel, triple loop. Maybe a quad flip, triple toe loop. Or he could possibly—

 _Thud!_ —Shiro winces as Keith misses his landing and smacks into the ice. As he skids toward one of the barriers, his yelp and pained grunting echo through the rink. Over by the other end, Lotor nearly chokes on a sip from his water-bottle while Adam cringes as hard as Shiro does. The three of them trade quick glances, but don’t keep their eyes off Keith for long. None of them needs to point out how bad a spill like that could be for anyone, much less someone in their profession.

Trying to keep his breathing steady, Shiro cranes his neck and squints at Keith’s stirring. He calls out to his friend— _“Keith? …Hey, Keith? Are you… How do you feel? Does anything hurt?”_ —and so do Adam and Lotor. Maybe Keith takes a while to reply, when anybody texts him. Maybe he didn’t want to get in a group-text with the rest of Team Too Much.

But he’s their friend, regardless, and part of their little group. He accepted Shiro’s invitation, back at the Vancouver Games, and unless Keith ever decides to officially call off that friendship—until such time as he tells Shiro to his face that he doesn’t want to be friends anymore—Keith has Shiro in his corner, whether he entirely realizes that or not. By extension, this means also having Lotor and Adam in his corner, and having all of them on his side means that Keith should get used to people caring whether or not he’s okay. Members of Team Too Much look out for each other.

Perfectly silent, Keith drags himself to his feet as if he can’t hear any of them asking if he’s okay. For all he seems steady enough on his blades, he leans against the wall, bracing himself with both hands. Even from here, Shiro can tell that Keith’s breathing seems somewhat less than steady, and the pallor seeping over his cheeks probably hasn’t come from the lights washing him out. Whether it’s from nerves or something else, the facts are clear: Keith needs someone to come help him.

Shiro sighs, peeling himself out of his seat. Thankfully, Lotor and Adam wanted to take a break anyway; Shiro needs them to clear out for a little bit, and he doesn’t need to ask them for that favor twice. Once they’ve swapped into their sneakers, they make their exit, chattering in hushed voices about whether or not they might convince Allura to come get lunch—

“I would certainly like to hope that she is amenable to such self-care, Sunshine,” Lotor says, holding the door open for Adam. “However, we may find Her Highness rather indisposed—by which I mean that she and Zethrid might have slipped off for some _quality time_ in a supply closet.”

If Shiro didn’t have a reason for asking his best friends to leave, he’d _definitely_ want to hear more about that. One friend, who happens to be the Crown Princess of Altea, hitting it off so hard with a member of another friend’s personal security detail, and subsequently hooking up in closets at the Grand Prix Final? That story’s gotta be thrilling, and Shiro would prefer to hear _Allura’s_ version, rather than the version that will eventually hit the tabloid gossip-rags.

For now, though, he takes the protective covers off his blades, grabs up Keith’s bottle of water, and skates over to join him by the wall. While Keith accepts the drink, and looks like he rather needs it, he doesn’t acknowledge that Adam and Lotor have gone. He doesn’t say anything, at first, and even when Shiro prods him about how the fall he took felt or didn’t, Keith only wants to shrug.

“I’ve had worse,” he supposes, as if this should make the situation better. “At least I didn’t break my wrist.”

“That… is definitely better than any of the outcomes where you _did_ break your wrist, yeah.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“If your exhibition program’s throwing you off this badly—”

“I don’t feel _that_ thrown off—”

“If you’re pushing yourself so hard that you fall and hit a literal wall—”

“What, like nobody’s ever fallen in a practice session before?”

“When the whole point of an exhibition skate is to enjoy yourself, express yourself more freely, and showcase the kind of skating that makes _you_ happiest? _Not_ to skate what other people want from you? And _definitely_ not to get so far lost in your own head, so buried under the pressure to do what someone else wants from you and twist yourself around for _them_ instead of being who you _are_?” Choking down a sigh, lest Keith hear it and decide to berate himself any further, Shiro pushes his fringe back off his face. “Forgive me, Keith? But that all sounds like a pretty big deal, to me.”

“Yeah, well.” Quirking his shoulders and failing to come off as casually as he wants, Keith throws back a long drink of water. “Maybe I shouldn’t even be skating in this gala anyway, if I don’t get the so-called point of an exhibition skate. I mean, it’s not like I _won_ anything, so why let me on the ice in the first place.”

Those words slap Shiro across the face. His breathing doesn’t falter, but for a few, too-long moments, his brain spins around like tires stuck in slippery mud. His mind reels, trying to get itself around what Keith just said, and what those words mean—on the whole and strung together, at least, because they make sense individually, but lose Shiro when he tries to make a more cohesive picture out of them—and while he fumbles some kinda meaning together, Shiro can’t help frowning concernedly. As he swallows thickly, his stomach lurches like he could be sick, and watching Keith slouch only makes him feel worse.

“You _did_ win though, Keith,” he points out, gently squeezing Keith’s shoulder. “You made your first Grand Prix Final, this year. You wouldn’t have done that without winning.”

“Okay, fine, I won in that I got medals during the series itself. Silver at Skate America, gold at the Rostelecom Cup, which? I’m still dead shocked that Lotor hasn’t murdered me over that _slight_ —”

“Lotor wouldn’t do that, Keith. He really liked your programs— _both_ of them—”

“But _you_ weren’t at the Rostelecom Cup,” Keith says, ducking his chin and trying to hide behind his hair. “Like, be honest, Shiro: when you show up at a competition, everybody knows who’s gonna win. When you _aren’t_ there, the field’s a little bit more open? But not so much that I should’ve beaten Lotor.”

“Oh, uh.…?”

Shiro drags himself through a deep breath. Then, another. By the third, the rushing in his head slows down, like it might stop spinning but can’t decide how it feels about that idea. Still more deep inhaling, and no matter how sure Shiro feels in his physical footing, he doesn’t know if he’ll recover his voice. Looking Keith up and down, Shiro can’t find anything that says Keith means this. Hunching around himself like a scared cat, he keeps his head bowed in either contrition or shame. His shoulder-blades strain against his t-shirt, threatening to rip clean out of the fabric, and his fingers tremble around the water-bottle, but they don’t let him drop it.

As much as Shiro hates that sentiment—as close as it sounds to all those articles that go on about _Takashi Shirogane, Living God of Figure Skating_ , rather than Shiro, an actual human person—he sighs sympathetically. Like Dr. Hall, his therapist, tells him to do, Shiro reminds himself that Keith didn’t intend to come off like, _“Why can’t you retire and let the rest of us have a shot?”_ because that isn’t in his character. If Keith wanted to tell someone a thing like that, then he’d either choke it down or say it outright.

So, he still needs somebody to be here for him. Whatever’s going on inside of Keith has likely built up for a while, and Shiro needs to help Keith however he can. Before he can get ideas about stopping himself, Shiro reaches out for Keith and waits for him to nod his permission. For all he initially tenses up, he yields to Shiro’s touch pretty quickly, leaning into the hand that curls around his shoulder.

“Both of the programs you did this series were fantastic,” Shiro tells him. “You pushed yourself in new directions, and the hard work showed. Getting fourth place at your first ever GPF is nothing to sneeze at, and as someone who _watched_ the Rostelecom Cup? You beat Lotor fair and square.”

“Would you say that to his face, though?”

“I _have_ said it to his face. You can ask him and Adam, when they get back.”

Tactfully, Shiro leaves out the part where Lotor prefers to save his strength, doing well enough to make the final of any given series but keeping his best performances for that last competition. That strategy works for him—until one or both of them retire, Shiro can’t imagine a Worlds podium that doesn’t have him and Lotor on it—but at the moment, Keith might twist Lotor’s methods around. Whatever Keith’s wrestling with, it could tell him that, like dueling someone who’s using their off-hand, beating Lotor doesn’t really count because Keith gave his all at the Rostelecom Cup while Lotor held back.

“Anyway,” Shiro sighs, refusing to let too much dead air settle between himself and Keith. “The real point here? Is that you absolutely deserve to skate in the gala. They wouldn’t have invited you if you didn’t deserve it.”

“Except for how the champions’ gala is for _winners_ , Shiro—”

“You are currently number four out of all the men’s singles skaters _in the world_ —”

“But I didn’t win _here_ , though. It’s _wrong_ to let me skate tonight—”

“No, it was wrong to let Evgeni Plushenko skate to ‘Sexbomb’ at the 2002 GPF. Or to let him skate in _any_ exhibition gala, ever.” Rolling his eyes at the memory of that program, from the season before Shiro made his juniors debut, Shiro flips his fringe back off his forehead. “It’s like I always say: exhibition skates are meant to showcase what we love about skating and put on a good show. Plushenko managed that with ‘Sexbomb,’ and for way too long, it helped convince people that his technical expertise made him a performer when, in reality? He couldn’t put on a good show if he had a fully-illustrated how-to guide helping him.”

“Neither can I, though,” Keith grumbles, glaring at the opposite side of the rink as if the empty seats owe him something. “So, basically, I’m kinda fucked over here. And besides that, I’m in no position to judge Evgeni Fucking Plushenko.”

“That isn’t true, Keith.” Shiro frowns; he can’t help it. His chest aches for Keith, every inch of his body screaming that he should hug Keith—or hey, why not kiss him, since Maurice construes everything Shiro does as cheating anyway. At least a kiss could mean he’s mad about something that really happened, instead of throwing accusations that Shiro doesn’t deserve, based on nothing more than Maurice’s unchecked fantasies. Glistening under the rink’s bright lights, Keith’s lips look so soft—but no, no, that’s a terrible idea.

Aside from how he’d lose the high-ground with Maurice, Shiro shouldn’t force a kiss on Keith that he would never want.

Rubbing Keith’s shoulder, hopefully soothing Keith while also distracting himself from a festering multitude of Bad Ideas, Shiro says, “You always radiate feeling, when you skate, Keith. It helps draw people into your performances. Then, you know how to create nice, visually dramatic effects—kicking off so the ice goes flying, moving your arms this way or that way without a clear motive beyond releasing your emotions—but you don’t _focus_ all of that feeling. It’s like an inferno, or a raging tempest; it overwhelms you, so you project it out. But you don’t need to be that forest fire all the time, Keith. You’re so much more—”

“Yeah, of course,” Keith deadpans, passing his water-bottle to Shiro without explanation. “I’m not always a forest fire. I double-time as a nervous wreck who can’t get out of his own head and falls apart over stupid things that just don’t matter.”

“No, I mean more like…” Sighing, Shiro squeezes Keith’s shoulder again. “You’re sweet, Keith. You care about the people who matter to you. You get so upset when you feel like judges aren’t scoring Lance’s programs fairly, or mine—you get upset about them undervaluing my performance score _even though_ they mark me up so high and even when I _win_ —and you don’t need to hide those parts of yourself. You can let them shine through.”

“Sure, Nancy Sinatra’s totally awesome for doing that.” A few shakes of the head—and a light spray of sweat swishing off of him—and Keith tugs his hair into a messy ponytail. “Except, y’know, it’s ‘These Boots Are Made For Walking,’ instead of ‘Bang Bang’ or ‘You Only Live Twice’ or whatever else you think might do me better.”

That… is a regrettably fair point. Much as Shiro enjoys that song, “These Boots Are Made For Walking” might not bring out the softer parts of Keith’s self, the ones that he keeps trying to bury.

He, however, is nothing if not persistent. “Do you have any other programs you’ve been working on?” When Keith nods, Shiro smiles and prays that it looks encouraging. “Can I see one of them? Or more than one, if you want? And d’you want to use my portable speakers?”

Fortunately, Keith agrees without putting up any fuss. Pocketing his earbuds, he shoves his mp3 player into Shiro’s hand.

When he nods from his starting position, Shiro presses “play”—and he perks right up at the song’s familiar, tinkling sound. He can’t help grinning when Sufjan Stevens’ vocals start. “Chicago” is such an unexpected choice for Keith, and Shiro loves the song, besides.

Even in a t-shirt and practice leggings that leave little to the imagination, Keith moves so demurely, but without seeming shy. None of his usual style comes through. He doesn’t punch the air, or flail and hope that it looks artistic enough to get by, or whip his arms around like banners flapping in a windstorm. They become his wings, instead, and each flap electrifies the air with clear purpose and emotion— _genuine_ emotion, too, rather than the affectations that Keith’s been forcing on himself with the Nancy Sinatra program.

More shockingly, Keith doesn’t jump until the song’s first chorus, leaping gracefully into a flawless quad salchow. Yet, even with how much Keith loves his jumps, Shiro can’t feel him waiting for that to come. He catches Keith losing character a few times, only briefly; right before he takes off into a triple flip, triple toe loop combo, the melancholy craving drops off his face as he looks down at his skates. But in fairness, Keith’s passing right by Shiro’s seat for that. If he were elsewhere on the rink, then Shiro might not have noticed.

What really coaxes Shiro onto the edge of his seat, though, is Keith’s footwork. Unlike the Nancy Sinatra program, with its complicated weave of kicks and grapevines and hopping on his blades as if trying to marry tap-dance and figure skating, Keith glides through this program’s fluid, elegant choreography. He sweeps over the rink, working his long, slender legs for all they’re worth in his spins and bends and spirals, arching his back and easing one leg up so that his skate rests over his head—or Keith makes it look easy, effortless, even though it’s anything but. More sweat’s surely pooling in his ponytail, but he refuses to let anybody see.

No, he isn’t skating perfectly, but that’s probably a matter of Keith needing to practice the program more. When he goes for another quad salchow, Keith lifts his arms above his head, extends his entire body in the process. When he lands, he reaches out at the audience—at Shiro, but that’s probably coincidence—and yearning lights up his brilliant, indigo eyes. Keith looks hungry, not only in that he might do well to eat something soon, but in that he’s starving for human connection, for someone to call his own, for love.

As the song swells to its conclusion, Keith’s energy seems to flag, but that makes sense, with everything he’s putting out there. Regardless of anything he’s feeling, physically, Keith perseveres. No matter how hard he pushes to maintain his posture, he keeps skating, and his raw emotion fills the rink, all warm and soft and sad and wanting. One last triple salchow leads into a variant Kerrigan spiral: Keith holds his free leg by the ankle, keeping his back more upright than not. He eases himself out of that, then crouches over. Rising up with his deep breath, Keith could be a phoenix, coming out of its own ashes. One more upright spin, and Keith stops it right as the song ends.

Again, he’s directly in front of Shiro, holding up one arm as if reaching out to him. The expression on Keith’s face languishes, pines, aches from how much he longs for whatever he has in mind. Shiro can’t help but join him in tearing up. He can’t help the sunburst feeling in his chest, either, the bright little flare of hope that maybe—of course, it’s utterly ridiculous, a complete impossibility, and Shiro shouldn’t even daydream about it when that’s obviously a waste of time—but even so, he can’t help feeling like _maybe_ , the yearning that emanates from Keith is meant for him.

 _God, I wish_ , Shiro muses, trying to remember how to breathe, much less how to clap his hands.

A round of cheering erupts from over by the entrance, though. Good thing Lotor, Adam, Allura, and Romelle decided to show up when they have. Keith deserves to hear applause from someone, since Shiro’s body doesn’t feel like cooperating, and God help him, Shiro needs to get his mind off of these ideas that he can’t entertain, these fantasies in which Keith will ever want him in return.

  


* * *

  


At his own insistence, Keith only breaks for some water and a PowerBar before running through his “Chicago” program a second time. Then, a third and fourth. He only stops before the fifth time because Lotor, bless him, asks if Keith wouldn’t mind allowing him to borrow Shiro’s speakers for his own practice. Perfect timing—rehearsing the program like that again could wear Keith down or knock him off his game for the gala proper, but he’s too stubborn to back off once he’s found a good groove, even if in the name of his own best interests.

Not that Shiro can hold that against anyone, given his own tendencies. Either way, while Lotor goes over his “Lay All Your Love On Me” program, Shiro has another round of DMs to get back to. Most of them aren’t a big deal to him, personally. Professionally, sure, but as Shiro, Actual Human Person, he doesn’t care much about politely replying to different would-be journalists, asking them to please contact his manager about scheduling any particular interview.

Finally turning to the messages from George, Shiro smiles in relief. In about two seconds, a bemused frown crops up instead as Shiro tries to puzzle out why George sent him a link to some article on ESPN.com, asking if he’d seen this and was any of it true. No ideas come to mind, so Shiro clicks through to what is apparently an interview with Maurice. Most of it concerns hockey, how Team Daibazaal played in Sochi and the same old nonsense about the Canucks’ rivalry with the Calgary Flames (which is, if anyone asks Shiro, nothing more than a cheap way to extort fans into buying tickets, but keeping his mouth shut about that is one of the only ways to make Maurice can it about how Shiro insists on staying friends with Adam and Lotor, despite no longer sleeping with either of them).

Then, the interviewer has to go and ask Maurice about Shiro and the state of their relationship.

 _“We did have a bit of a rough patch earlier this year,”_ Maurice says in the interview. _“Anyone who knows Takashi—or who has any familiarity with his skating—knows that he puts a great deal of himself and his own feelings into his programs. I do not think that his exhibition skate at the Winter Games in Sochi was particularly subtle about what he and I were going through, or about what he was feeling about it. Moreover, Takashi can lend himself to trouble so easily. Not that he ever means to do so, of course. But he has a way about him—a certain flamboyance, you could call it—that makes him a brilliant skater, but also makes him difficult to deal with, as a person.”_

Cringing, Shiro rolls his eyes and makes a mental note to call Maurice’s therapist, once he’s home from Barcelona. Maurice waived confidentiality for Shiro after getting invited to sit in on one of Shiro’s sessions with Dr. Hall. If the stories he’s told his therapist have even remotely resembled the garbage he’s spewing at this poor interviewer, then that’d explain a _lot_ about the negative net-progress that Maurice has made, lately.

In the name of being informed, Shiro turns his eyes back to his phone and reads the rest of what Maurice has to say for himself: _“Whatever trouble Takashi and I have endured together, I believe that our relationship has come out even stronger. We are stronger as individuals, and we bring that strength to our relationship with each other. It has taken work, as well as seeing therapists regularly, but the strain has been worth the bliss we have now. I’ve never loved anyone else like this. We have even discussed marriage.”_

Gritting his teeth and choking down the impulse to vomit, Shiro taps out a reply: _absolutely NOT true. some of it’s close enough (like the part about counseling). but no, things are not blissful and we have NOT discussed getting married. this is LITERALLY the first i’ve heard about him even wanting that, and i’m not walking down any aisle til marriage equality passes in all 50 states_

Before he can think better of it, Shiro adds, _put it this way: if keith ever felt like i do about him, i’d have a really hard time NOT cheating on my actual alleged boyfriend_

As if on cue, a seat creaks behind Shiro and someone’s leg gently nudges at his head. Fumbling his phone back into his jacket’s pocket, he tilts his head back. Even upside-down, the concern in Keith’s frown comes through, loud and clear. Glistening and focused only on Shiro, his eyes go soft as he tilts his head and studies Shiro’s face, looking for…… something, apparently. Shiro couldn’t guess what to save either of their lives, but there’s definitely _something_ that Keith wants to find.

Slouching, Keith props himself up on his elbows. “You okay?”

“Apparently, someone wants to marry me,” he says, shrugging and ready to lead into a joke about how he’d rather die—but a strawberry blush flares up on Keith’s cheeks, which is cute? But it doesn’t make sense? It derails the train of Shiro’s bad sense of humor, though, so he settles for dragging his fingers back through the fluffy clump of hair that he keeps as long as he can without having to hear Maurice complain. “Anyway, it would’ve been nicer to hear that _from_ the someone in question, instead of what actually happened?”

“What, did he make Haxus tell you again? Like some giant piss-baby with fuck-ugly mutton-chops?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Look, my usual feelings about Maurice’s manager aside? I’m still grateful that Haxus told me how Maurice’s therapist told him to let me text people without acting like he’s invited to the conversation because blah blah, pushing himself to improve instead of taking his control issues out on me.”

Although Keith doesn’t roll his eyes, the way he arches his brow is almost worse. It nearly jumps off his forehead as he says, “Yeah, that’s fine, but? I won’t be grateful to Haxus until his intervention actually keeps Maurice from treating you like this.”

Now, Shiro’s cheeks flush warm. Shame twists around inside his throat. For want of something to keep his nerves from catching fire, he fidgets with his zipper. “Maybe I’m reading too much into things here—” Trying to tune out Keith’s scoffing, Shiro counts to ten in his head. “It just feels really messed up, y’know? I only found out about this because _George_ clicked on an article about Maurice, then sent it to me. So, Maurice thinks that he might want to marry me? But rather than talking to _me_ about it, he tells some journalist for ESPN—”

“That’s more than _messed up_ , Shiro. That’s pretty solidly in _‘fucked up’_ territory.” When Shiro doesn’t argue with him, Keith sighs and gives Shiro a sympathetic frown. He takes a moment, silently mulling things over before—“Does he, uh— _Mr. Michael_ , I mean? Does he know what song you’re skating tonight?”

“He knew I was working on my ‘Everything She Wants’ program,” Shiro offers by way of confirmation. “I told him I was doing it for this series. And he asked earlier if I’d keep it for the Grand Prix Final. I was going to anyway, but especially in light of Maurice and that interview he did…”

Despite nodding, Keith goes quiet for a while. He almost makes Shiro jump when he finally asks, “Does Mr. Michael know _why_ you’re skating it?”

“Considering how much he knows about my situation with Maurice? I’d say George has a pretty good idea, yeah.” Prying himself out of his seat, Shiro hauls himself up. Stretching his arms over his head, he works a knot of tension in his back—a pretty big knot. Maybe he’ll call it Maurice, if it sticks around. With a sigh, he tells Keith, “At least we know I’ll deliver a good show, right? All the feeling’s perfect for it.”


	7. Riverside, CA—2015.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While most of this chapter isn’t that intense, and actually deals with some pretty light fare (both in that cute, fun things are happening, and in that Sendak gets dumped for real, which is pretty uplifting until Shiro immediately remembers that his pining over Keith is “completely unrequited”), this chapter also deals with grief and mourning, following the off-screen death of Shiro’s grandfather.
> 
> Additionally, prior to getting dumped, Sendak showcases several of the reasons why Shiro is dumping him, especially guilt-tripping and (attempted) emotional manipulation, low-to-mid-key gaslighting, and a tendency to make everything ever all about himself (even when flat-out given explanations that hold more water than the ones he makes up in order to paint himself as the victim in this situation).

_“He’s just a boy, but he’s a bottom…”_

As a tinkly melody and Vicky Vox’s crooning vocals introduce this song, Allura scoots her chair closer to Keith’s side. Elbowing into his personal space and then looping her arm around his. Personally, Shiro doesn’t know how this position is any less awkward, but unbothered, Allura leans over Keith’s shoulder, peering down at Ryan’s laptop, the source of said music.

_“Make him try to top, he’ll cry. Never even said he’s bi…”_

Keith, for his part, doesn’t seem to mind this, either—not the potentially odd-feeling way they’re sitting together or the casual way that Allura invited herself into his area. Sure, he shifts so his cheek rests in his other palm, but otherwise, he doesn’t do much in the way of visible reaction. Most other people couldn’t get away with something like this, but it’s good that Keith can trust Allura enough to let her sit this close to him.

_“It says, ‘He’s vers’ up on his Grindr…”_

Slicing cucumbers over on the counter, trying to help Aunt Satomi put dinner together, Shiro only says a silent prayer of thanks that they even have enough room and chairs for everyone, tonight. The Shirogane kitchen table in Riverside usually only hosts three people. Four, when Shiro makes it home to eat dinner with Obaasan, Aunt Satomi, and Naoko, or when he isn’t staying at Uncle Mitch’s place because he and Bennett live closer to the rink.

_“Versatile? Yeah, okay. Girl, you know you’re super gay!”_

Yet, here they all are: Keith and Allura, watching Youtube on Ryan’s laptop; Lotor, with his long ponytail draped over the back of his seat, smiling besottedly down at Shiro’s laptop, where Adam’s on a Skype call, and periodically reaching over to let Carmilla butt her face into the back of his hand; Ryan, drinking a mug of tea and progressively being claimed as a new Favorite by Miss Kitty Baxter, the eldest of the five cats; Naoko, sitting nearish Ryan and Miss Kitty, crocheting a little orange something that will probably turn into one of her homemade plushie animals, or possibly a cat-sized sweater; Uncle Mitch, sitting between Naoko and Lotor, with his mug of coffee and ample space on either side of him; and Obaasan, dressed all in black, with her strand of black jade juzu beads wrapped around one bony wrist and her silver rosary—the one with the gleaming, black Tahitian pearls for the beads—wrapped around the other, pensively pursing her lips as she leans over Keith’s other shoulder and watching the video with him and Allura—

“Why did you wear the pink tights for this program, though, Kashi?” Looking away from the computer, Obaasan furrows her brow and pushes her black-framed glasses up an imperious nose. “They look nice enough, I’m not criticizing them? But why the pink ones? I don’t understand the aesthetic choice, here.”

“First, they’re technically leggings? Second, they’re an homage to an outfit one of the singers wore for the music video.” Shiro shrugs, shunting the vegetables off his cutting board and into the bowl of lettuce that will eventually become salad. “I was going to go all the way and wear an orange crop-top, but… Then Allura objected to the orange crop-top.”

“I stand by that objection,” she chirps, propping her chin on Keith’s shoulder. “While I do appreciate the visual homage, it was entirely the wrong shade of orange for you. Also, I found it visually assaultive.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all have the luxury of an easy costume. Like, y’know, a hot pink sports bra and a pair of leggings that we shrunk in the wash.”

Allura shrugs, denying nothing because she can’t. “Enlighten me, Shiro: did we or did we not raise over three-hundred-thousand dollars for Project Heal—”

“Oh, we absolutely did, and I’m not disputing that.”

Nor would Shiro attempt to do so, because he can’t. Reality isn’t on his side about that matter. Between Allura and Lotor being royalty, and them, Shiro, and Ryan all having won success and popularity as professional skaters, they managed to raise said money simply by promising videos of themselves doing different amusing or entertaining stunts. For the final tier, which their followers crossed shortly before Christmas, Allura, Lotor, Ryan, and Shiro would all skate to songs that they most likely couldn’t get away with at any exhibition gala. For instance, Uncle Mitch has spent nearly two years refusing to let Shiro skate, on the grounds that NBC would have to censor the majority of the song.

Over at the table, Allura smirks like a cat in a canary cage. “Well, you’re certainly trying to dispute _something_.”

With a shrug, Shiro explains, “I’m just saying: some of us—meaning you—had easier costumes to devise than others.”

“Yeah, both of you can stow it about that.” The expression that Ryan shoots at Shiro, then at Allura, reeks of how unimpressed he wants them to think he is. “Because _both_ of you had it easier than I did, coming up with homages to your songs’ original music videos. I only wound up getting one in for my Rihanna song? Because American Apparel basically always has gold leggings in stock, and for some _totally inexplicable_ reason? Lotor _happened_ to own a headband with gold lamé rabbit ears on it.”

“Oh, there’s actually a _very_ explicable reason for that,” Adam chimes in, voice slightly distorted by the laptop’s speakers. “It just isn’t one that Lotor and I are allowed to speak of, in present company.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Aunt Satomi calls, turning away from the stove so her voice won’t get muffled against the wall. “Like literally anything you kids can do will shock us. My mother and I have been fighting for safer, more liberated sex since before any of you were even born.”

“He means _me_ , Satomi,” Uncle Mitch sighs. “ _I’m_ the present company. Because forgive me for not wanting to think about what two young men I’ve known since they were eleven or twelve? Do in bed together.”

“Which I find perfectly fair, if we’re honest.” Swishing out his ponytail, Lotor rests his cheek in his free hand. “Considering that Mitch already has _one_ of us to concern himself with, in that regard, and he cannot opt out of the details of Shiro’s sex life so easily. Even with my admitted tendencies toward exhibitionism, I cannot fault Mitch for wanting to skip learning certain tawdry tidbits when he can.”

As Adam snorts and tells Lotor, _“Ani ohev ot’h’a”_ —Hebrew for, _“I love you”_ —Shiro could swear that he sees something… odd flash across Keith’s face. In terms of reactions, this could be far worse. Keith’s brow furrows and his mouth contorts itself into a shape that, even with help from his own glasses, Shiro can’t easily identify. Confusion gleams in Keith’s eyes, and then something that looks like hurt, and then a yearning that reminds Shiro so much of Keith’s “Chicago” exhibition program—but… He wouldn’t torture himself like this, right? Silently pining over Adam or Lotor or both of them, rather than simply asking them how they feel?

Nominally, Shiro shouldn’t judge, but his current situation is different. Clearly, he has Maurice to worry about. Even if he didn’t, any romantic pining from Keith to Lotor and/or Adam could find itself easily resolved. Surely, they’d return Keith’s affections—excluding people who aren’t attracted to men for that obvious reason, who _wouldn’t_ reciprocate Keith’s (technically hypothetical) feelings for them?—and since Adam and Lotor openly identify as polyamorous…

Shaking his head down at the counter, Shiro tries to banish those thoughts. No sense in entertaining them too long, in getting himself twisted in knots over Keith’s love life when it is, frankly, none of Shiro’s business. For now, his best option is focusing on dinner, on mixing up the vegetables and slices of grilled chicken in the oversized salad bowl.

“Y’know, for the record?” Adam says after a while, drawing Shiro’s mind back toward the conversation as Ryan’s laptop blasts “Anaconda” by Nicki Minaj and, in all likelihood, the video of Allura skating to it. “I really hope you four are pleased with yourselves—”

“We just raised a ton of money for one of the only international charities for eating disorder support and awareness,” Ryan points out as Miss Kitty flops out on the table in front of him, showing off her tummy and purring at him to please continue petting her. “Why shouldn’t we be pleased with ourselves?”

“Alright, okay, fine, how can I argue, when you put it like that?”

“Put it like what, Adam? Put it like how it really is? Put it in terms of reality?”

“See, I’m looking more at some of the unintended side-effects of this stunt—”

“Side-effects?” Allura pouts, anxiety glimmering in her blue-green eyes. “What sort of… How do you mean?”

“Oh, I just mean how Griffin reacted to all your shenanigans.” This statement attracts several bemused noises from around the table, which, in turn, makes Adam sigh. “So, after you posted all your videos earlier, Griffin decided that he absolutely needed to take a break from practice and watch them. For the most part, this was fine, or as fine as things get with James Griffin. He kept everything together… until he got to Ryan’s ‘S&M’ skate.”

Perking up, Ryan blinks across the table at Shiro’s laptop. “I, uh. Did? Did he say anything? About my program?”

“In a manner of speaking, yeah. He hyperventilated too hard and swooned down the stairs.”

Ryan winces as though he’s the one who got hurt. “Is… What happened? Is he okay?”

“Well, he probably bruised his ego, which will make him a complete nightmare for the next week or so, but…” With a sympathetic sigh, Adam lets his voice soften. “Yeah, Sanda made him go to the ER. Nothing is actually broken, and he didn’t sustain a concussion, so…” A huff, and Shiro would bet anything that Adam’s arching both eyebrows, shooting a Significantly Pointed Glance over the tops of his glasses, even though Ryan can’t see him doing it. “Hence my statement: I really hope you four are pleased with yourself.”

“In _that_ case? Since James didn’t get a concussion?” Smirking, Ryan shrugs. “Yes, Adam, I’m incredibly pleased with myself.”

“ _Please_ be gentle with my teammate, Kinkade. As much as you can possibly manage. He’s a resilient little shit, so probably nothing you do will _kill_ him? Which means that I have to deal with cleaning up whatever mess you turn him into by… I don’t know, uh…” For a moment, Adam grumbles out a mix of English, Hebrew, Galra, Altean, and Quebecois French. From the sound of it, the words he wants do not want to come to him, not in any of the languages with which he has any proficiency. “Just. Please don’t _break_ James by existing while devastatingly handsome?”

“Whose idea was this stunt, anyway?” Obaasan interjects, propping her chin on her knuckles and tilting her head down at the screen. “Or did all of you have the notion in unison? Did you build on each other’s concepts until something came together? Please stop me if I guess the truth of this, because I find your entire project _fascinating_. Then, the performances themselves”

“Uh, well, I wasn’t involved at all, so?” As Keith speaks, a shrug comes through in his voice. “I’m just here because Michigan’s winter semester hasn’t started yet, so Thace can’t nag me about my coursework, and Shiro invited me to come watch.”

“Kashi’s very thoughtful in that way. We certainly tried to raise him properly—I mean, I…”

Gasping softly, Obaasan reaches for the silver chain necklace that she’s started wearing. As she fusses with it, idly spinning a pair of freshly polished gold and silver rings around the tip of her index finger, Shiro’s own silver chain necklace feels like a noose. Mom and Dad’s wedding rings could break his neck, they get so heavy. But at least he’s used to that kind of weight; he’s carried that burden with him since he was eight years old and lost his parents. Obaasan hasn’t even borne hers for three full weeks, yet.

Task clear in his mind, Shiro only hesitates so he can rinse off his hands. As soon as they’re clean, he’s at her side, kneeling by her chair and letting her clasp both of her trembling hands around one of his own. Scorching hot, Obaasan’s bony fingers cling to Shiro as she kisses the backs of his knuckles. Her own pair of rings match the gold and silver ones that have belonged to Ojiisan longer than anyone in the room but Obaasan has been alive. Their metal scorches along Shiro’s skin, focusing the heat that Obaasan perpetually radiates.

Sometimes, her hands can get uncomfortable. Between her vise-like grip and how hot she runs, physically, Obaasan doesn’t mean to put people off from holding her hands, but she often does. At the moment, though, Shiro appreciates the discomfort; it reminds him that, whatever else happens, Obaasan is still alive.

 _“He was so proud of you, Kashi,”_ she whispers in Japanese. _“He was so proud of everything you are, and everything you do—”_

 _“He still is,”_ Shiro tells her, nodding toward the open-walled spot that marks where the kitchen ends. _“He still loves you, too.”_

Glancing around the family room, Shiro first lands on the shelf jutting out from the wall, on the mantle’s right-hand side. On that shelf sits the family’s kamidana, which Ojiisan immaculately maintained in life, even though he’d been born and raised in California, like his father and grandfather before him. Infinitely more observant than his Osaka-born wife, Ojiisan kept the shrine clean, made sure the offerings got laid out properly, always remembered to renew the ofuda every year. Now, those duties will need to fall to someone else, most likely to Shiro or Aunt Satomi.

Next, Shiro’s gaze drifts to the butsudan, over at the mantle’s left-hand side, its polished ebony gleaming in the pale sunlight that filters through the window. The sunlight also bounces off the doors’ ornate gold designs of dragons and flowers. The boxy enclosure around the altar stands slightly shy of five feet tall. Beneath it sits a simple table, made from the same ebony. All up, the butsudan is taller than Shiro and, if anyone asks him, it radiates an aura of spiritual significance that commands respect. Despite this, someone who didn’t know better might confuse the butsudan with any free-standing cabinet with magnets that help its doors stay closed, so the cats can’t get inside.

However, the butsudan houses a scroll with Ojiisan’s favorite painted image of the Buddha, positioned at the exact center of its altar. Before the scroll sits a ceramic bowl for burning incense. On an array of inner shelves, the Shiroganes keep a collection of urns, each one containing the ashes of a deceased loved one. Although Shiro can largely tell them apart—Hii-Ojiisan Kenji Shirogane has the austere urn, carved from black marble; Uncle Masao, Obaasan’s younger brother, has the one with golden plating and a hunk of onyx carved into a rose; Ichiro, Kenji’s father, has the porcelain urn with blue underglaze and a painting of three white cranes in flight—laminated memorial cards rest beside them, photos or drawings marking out who resides in which urn.

Looking over into the living room as well, Obaasan sighs. “Kashi, would you…? Please?”

He nods and kisses the back of her hand, because she doesn’t need to finish that request; he knows what to do. As she wants, Shiro opens up the butsudan and tugs the string that turns on its internal light. Bowing his head in respect for his family members, he sets a stick of incense burning. Fortunately, the smell keeps the cats from messing around with anything, so Shiro can leave the doors open for little bit. He should definitely be safe while kneeling on the stool and offering a prayer.

The family didn’t always have this particular butsudan. Hii-Ojiisan Kenji passed away when Shiro was six years old, and the clearest memory Shiro has from that time was trying to help Dad find a space for his grandfather’s urn in the old altar. Made from rosewood, it sat on an end-table, rather than needing its own space, and urns got so cramped together inside it that the family’s memorial cards were relegated to one of the drawers that pulled out of that butsudan’s base. It wasn’t a _bad_ butsudan, at all. Once upon a time, Ichiro’s younger brother Kiyoshi had fashioned it, after they’d lost their own father.

Then, when Shiro was eight, a drunk driver hit his Mom and Dad. They’d been on their way home from Pasadena, celebrating with one of their friends, who’d just gotten tenure at CalTech. While Shiro handled that loss by skating more intensely, by having Uncle Mitch or Obaasan take him down to the rink more often and getting more serious about his lessons, Ojiisan grieved like his great-uncle. He designed and built the butsudan himself, though two of his friends from temple had helped with the gold decorations and with setting up the internal lamp.

Once Ojiisan finished his work, he took Mom’s urn (pewter with one of her old citrine pendants set on the latch) and Dad’s (silver and styled like the maneki-neko because of some story from his and Mom’s courtship that they always promised to explain for their Kashi when he was older), and Ojiisan gave them places of high honor on either side of the altar. Looking to Dad, Shiro blinks at a picture of Hikaru Shirogane fixing an old radio in the garage; hunched over his workbench, he looks so much like Shiro that the hair on the back of Shiro’s neck stands on end. Beside Mom, a photo from their wedding ceremony smiles out at him instead, ruby red lipstick cracking from the sheer force of her grinning.

Shiro can’t help but smile back at her. That was so like Mom: her family demanded that her American husband come marry her before the kami at their temple in Kyoto, if he ever wanted to be Mr. Tenō Noshiko. Following her parents’ wishes, Mom wore a shiromuku kimono and tsunokakushi, she let her aunts do her immaculate makeup, and even respecting all the work that had gone into her bridal dress, she couldn’t contain her joy.

Inhaling deeply, coughing on the incense fumes, Shiro looks to the brass urn currently sitting beside the burning bowl, the latest addition to the butsudan. When they lost Mom and Dad, Ojiisan tried to syncretize Buddhism, Catholicism, and Shinto in terms that eight-year-old Kashi would understand. The way he explained it, Mom and Dad weren’t gone forever or erased from existence, simply guarding and helping the family in ways that they wouldn’t always notice or comprehend. It helped, hearing Ojiisan’s conviction that Mom and Dad would always be with them, learning to feel the subtle ways that they could reach out and help Shiro, let him know that they wouldn’t leave him.

Exactly as with Mom and Dad, however, this knowledge doesn’t erase the more immediate, tangible, aching absence where, until twenty days ago, Shiro had his grandfather. Another deep breath makes Shiro’s throat itch. He can’t tell if he’s tearing up from the grief or from the incense, or if there’s something else—

 _Bzzz! Bzzzz!—_ Shiro cringes as something starts vibrating on the coffee-table. Prying himself off the prayer-stool, he lets himself groan as his phone blasts, _“This tainted love you’ve given, I give you all a boy could give you! Take my tears and that’s not nearly all—”_

“Hang on, babe. Reception’s been a little weird all day.” Shiro sighs, lying so easily that it briefly turns his stomach. Humming the ringtone under his breath, he pokes at the screen, switching Maurice to speaker-phone, regardless of the audience this leaves them with, and setting up the Voice Memos app so it records everything. _Lie to me about what we said to each other on a phone-call once,_ Shiro muses—“Okay, I think we should be good now. What’s up?”

“Is that really all you have to say to me?” Maurice grumbles, the thunderstorm in his voice building up slowly, teasing Shiro more than anything, for now. “Do you have nothing else to say for yourself?” 

“Don’t you have a flight to Calgary that you should be on?”

“I am already _in_ Calgary. Where you could also be—”

“I spent all of New Year’s and then some with you,” Shiro points out, moving to lean on the kitchen counter, propped up on his elbows. By way of asking everyone else to stay quiet, lest Maurice correctly assume that people other than his boyfriend can hear him, Shiro mimes turning down the volume on a set of speakers. “You couldn’t make time to come down to Ojiisan’s funeral—”

“I did need to prepare my team for our game with Anaheim—”

“But I went up to watch you play the Sharks. Then, you visited to play the Kings— _thank you_ , by the way—”

“Do not start that again,” Maurice snaps. “Do you have any idea how much you humiliated me? Showing up to one of _my_ games in the _opposing_ team’s jersey— _really_ , Takashi? Have you no respect for the concept of a hometeam?”

“You might be my boyfriend, but _the LA_ _Kings_ are my hometeam, Maurice. Y’know, because I’m _from_ California. I was born and raised in the greater area of where? Oh. Right: _Los Angeles_.” Fighting down a sigh, Shiro tugs his fingers through his forelock. “I don’t know how many times I need to explain that very simple concept—”

“What about the very simple concept of _loyalty_ , Takashi? Since you claim that it matters so much to—”

“I _was_ being loyal. To my _grandfather_. You know, the one who _died_?” God, Shiro almost wishes that they could hash this out in person. On one hand, facing Maurice directly would feel far more satisfying. On the other hand, his breathing’s gone heavy, the way it usually does when he wants to hit someone, and if Maurice actually took a crack at him, Shiro would press the most serious assault charges he could justify. “Ojiisan passed about _ten days_ before you played the Kings, Maurice. Going to their games was one of the things he and I did together. _Of course_ I was wearing their jersey instead of Vancouver’s. It wasn’t about _you_.”

With most other people, that perfectly reasonable explanation might earn an apology, or at least an admission that it makes sense. Unfortunately, with Maurice Sendak, originally of Yurak, Daibazaal and currently of the Vancouver Canucks, laying out the rationale like this earns Shiro a petulant groan that reminds him quite powerfully of Jason. More specifically, it reminds Shiro of Jason whining at him when Shiro didn’t feel like sucking his dick.

“ _Perhaps_ ,” Maurice drawls, faking like he means to ask a question. “Perhaps, Takashi, with some reflection, you can appreciate my side and understand why I saw your choice of jersey as a personal affront, though.”

“No, actually, I won’t. Because, see, I’ve already reflected about it? And this is about my way of grieving my _grandfather_ , one of the people who _raised_ me. I have no idea why you can’t _deign_ to stop making that about _yourself_.” Huffing, Shiro adds, “Or, really? I should say that I don’t have any ideas where you come out of this looking like you’re in the right.”

“Is it _not_ my right to feel how I do? Is that _not_ one of the things that your therapist has discussed with you?”

“Yeah, she has. But this can’t all be—”

“And if I feel slighted by your _treasonous_ little public display—”

“Oh, that’s what we’re calling this? I wore the other team’s jersey, and _that’s_ **_treason_** —”

“It certainly _feels_ like emotional treason. Why would you not care—”

“Part of being in a relationship with someone—”

“How can you so easily switch from gentleness to casual cruelty—”

“—is learning how to _compromise_ with each other—”

“Have I not made you a priority, Takashi? Am I not _infinitely_ patient with you—”

“That is _not_ the word I’d use. By any stretch of the imagination.” Waiting for Maurice to ask what word he’d use instead, Shiro can’t shake the feeling that he’s going to be sick. But when the question doesn’t come, Shiro prods, “So, what am I supposed to be explaining to you, exactly? You clearly have something in mind, but since all I’ve been doing lately is prep for Nationals—”

“Oh, is _that_ what you would call it?”

“Is that what I would call working out, going to the rink, rehearsing my programs—”

“Posting _videos_ to Youtube? Videos that feature you skating, perhaps?” Hearing Maurice chuckle like that, low and smoky and so certain that he’s right and only needs time to prove this, Shiro balls up his hand. He grinds his fist against the cool, slick countertop, willing himself to keep standing as if, at the moment, Maurice can actually see him falter. “Videos that feature you skating to a song so horrifyingly flamboyant—”

“Oh, you mean how I honored the promises I made as part of a charity fundraiser?” Maybe it’s a good thing that he and Maurice are doing this on the phone. Even thinking about this possibility sets Shiro’s nerves slight and makes bile rise in his throat. “The video where I skated to a song I love, which motivated people to help—”

“ _Why_ would you waste time on that instead of _truly_ preparing for your Nationals?”

“Because I made a commitment, Maurice. So, I honored it—”

“You could have honored it with me.”

“I could have, but I didn’t _want_ to,” Shiro’s mouth spits out before he can think better of it. Hearing himself, he should cringe, should hate everything about himself that makes him say things without thinking—but Shiro can’t feel a shade of regret as he tacks on a sneer of, “ _Forgive_ me for wanting a break from being _harangued_ over how deeply embarrassing it is for me to be so _open_.”

Maurice takes his deep breath loudly enough to hear. Either he’s trying to pressure Shiro into apologizing for popping off just now, or he’s trying some kind of intimidation tactic. Whichever it is, he grumbles, “If I objected to you being out and proud, Takashi, would I have spoken about you or our relationship in any of my interviews?”

“If you could get through a single one of them without talking about how hard it is for you that I’m _so flamboyant_?” Which makes Shiro roll his eyes. If he’s so flamboyant, then why do some of the gossip-hounds online still act like he might secretly be straight? “If you could spell out any grievances without it sounding like you don’t appreciate me being out in ways that you don’t personally approve of in triplicate, then maybe, I’d believe I could have—”

“If you cannot trust your romantic partner, then perhaps, this is something to discuss with your therapist—”

“You mean the way that _you_ told _your_ therapist that I _blew you off_? Because that’s apparently what we’re calling, ‘Couldn’t drop everything to give you phone-sex while trying to arrange a _funeral_ ’?” On the other end of the line, Maurice splutters, sounding so guilty and so supremely unlike his normal self—but Shiro presses on, saying, “Or like the way you told her that I _shut down_ your attempts at talking to me about getting married? When literally all I did was say, in an interview from before we were together, that I have certain convictions that make me want to wait? And the truth is that _you_ didn’t ask me _anything_?”

“Takashi, if you feel that I haven’t met your needs, then what more do you want from me? I have given you—”

“I want you to _listen_ when I talk. I want you to stop _lying_. I want more give and take, I just…” Shiro’s breath catches in his throat, brain derailing as his mouth spits out the words his heart has felt for so long: “I want you to lose my number.”

Maurice hisses as if recoiling from a smack. “Takashi,” he groans, trying to murmur, feigning gentleness as if Shiro hasn’t handled this trick of his a hundred-thousand times before. “Beloved, please—reconsider—or think about what you’re saying—think about any of it at all—we? Don’t we have something so beautiful together. Why can’t we—we can work on this—”

“No. No, we can’t. I’ve already tried to work on saving this, and I am _done_.” Closing his eyes, Shiro struggles to ignore the electric simmering that seeps into the kitchen. Everyone else’s eyes zero in on him, and while Shiro can’t blame them, he wishes that they wouldn’t gawk. His arms have broken out in gooseflesh, his body feels like it’s both freezing and on fire, and each breath threatens to choke him out—but still, Shiro manages to tell his so-called lover, “ _We_ are done. Everything we’ve had, it’s _over_. I don’t want to work things out. I don’t want to be with you. We’re _finished_.”

“Takashi, please, my beloved—”

“ _Goodbye_ , Maurice.”

Silence drops into the kitchen, heavier than sin. Something should come to mind, now. Shiro should cry, or get sick, or come up with some fantastically witty turn of phrase that makes everything better, by sheer virtue of getting things away from what he’s done. Anything to restart the conversation, anything to get them off the subject of Maurice, anything to kick Shiro’s mind out of whatever rut it’s digging itself into, wondering whether or not this will last, or if he’s been dreaming this entire time, or if everything falls apart, should he trust literally any of this? _Can_ he trust any of this? Or is it all going—

“What I really wanna know is?” Keith sighs, pushing his floppy bangs off his forehead, dragging his hand through them, and interjecting right when Shiro needs it. “How’d you guys even get the rights to do this? I mean, not that I’m complaining or anything, but these are all copyrighted songs, right? So, how’d you get permission to use them?”

Winking in an incredibly odd parody of seduction, Allura drawls, “Oh, we have ways.”

“…Yeah, no, I know that? You obviously have ways? Since you got the rights and everything?” Frowning bemusedly, he gestures at the screen, where he’s turned on the video of Lotor’s part in this group charity stunt: his program to a song called “Sexy Nerd.” When this hand-waving fails to get the answer that Keith wants, he adds, “I just wanna know what your ways even _are_ , Princess?”

“Short version? Bennett knows some people who know some people. Certain other people owe him favors, so he got us really good deals.” Flopping into one of the seats beside Uncle Mitch, Shiro shoots Keith a small smile, then gives one to Allura. Later tonight, he’ll need to thank both of them for helping redirect the conversation, after that. “Plus, the fact that we needed the songs for charity helped. If not for how timing shook out with everyone’s Nationals and Europeans coming up, we might’ve tried to work something out where Detox or Vicky made a special guest appearance for mine.”

Down on the one laptop, Adam scoffs and mutters about Shiro’s ineffable charisma getting him into interesting places again. This draws Lotor back into the conversation, and then Ryan. Soon enough, everyone’s back to laughing and chatting, as they were before that call came through. The kitchen smells like Ojiisan’s shiitake udon and whatever grabbag of sauce and spices that Satomi used on the chicken, and with the conversation’s buzz rising in the air, the whole place sounds the way _“home”_ should. Shiro’s free from Maurice, never has to call him “babe” or “boyfriend” again, never even needs to _see_ Maurice again, and this should open up so much promise that the world has attempted to deny him.

Yet, as Shiro watches Keith from across the table, he only wishes that changing his Facebook status to, “Single” could fix the part where Keith doesn’t want Shiro back and never will because why in the blazes would he.


	8. Greensboro, NC & Riverside—2015.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this is the chapter where karma comes for Sendak, this is also the chapter where Shiro loses his arm. It isn’t entirely explicit—i.e., the chapter features an argument between Shiro and Sendak that leads up to the wreck in which Shiro loses his arm, but the actual loss of limb itself happens off-screen—and ultimately, I didn’t feel that it needed the, “Graphic depictions of violence” warning.
> 
>  _However_ , the lead-up to that loss of limb involves: an argument between an abuser and the romantic partner who wants to get away from him; Sendak attempting to manipulate and guilt-trip Shiro back into a relationship with him; stalking (more implied than not, but Sendak only got back into Shiro’s physical presence through stalking); drunk driving; and Sendak ultimately causing the wreck partly out of drunkenness and mostly as an attempted murder-suicide to keep Shiro from leaving him (which proves unsuccessful all around, because both of them live, Shiro does still leave him, and Sendak’s karma comes in the form of being held very accountable for everything he’s done).

Another round of US Nationals, another gold medal in the bag, and another exhibition gala that Shiro gets to close.

Maybe his program’s a bit overly blunt, a little too on-the-nose about his feelings. He’s planned it since before he dumped Maurice for the last time, but in the aftermath of that, probably everyone can guess why Shiro feels lyrics like, _“You’re the one that I love and I’m saying goodbye. Say something, I’m giving up on you”_ so much more powerfully than he did two weeks ago. Nobody will find anything terribly unexpected, picking through his choices in costuming or choreography. None of the layers of significance woven into this performance will shock anyone, given how overwhelmingly straightforward Shiro chose to take his interpretation of the song.

Regardless, he likes the program. Sometimes, he doesn’t need a surprise, regardless of what his audience might expect from him. Sometimes, earnestness carries a performance well enough on its own.

Once Shiro’s free to hit the showers, he does. He doesn’t have plans until the banquet. Sure, he and Ryan need to change into their suits, but otherwise, they’re only meant to spend the lull relaxing, getting their heads back together, so they can impress the guests who might seek them out. After Ryan’s performance in the competition—making bronze, right after Shiro and Adam Rippon—and his lively, lovelorn skate to “Build Me Up Buttercup,” he’ll have people clamoring to get a few seconds of his time. Heading to collect his things, Shiro can’t help smiling at that idea. It’s what Ryan deserves, after how hard he’s worked to establish himself and open people’s minds to his own unique style of skating.

Shiro’s smile drops off his face as soon as he gets into his locker. Right there in front of him, cradled in his Team USA jacket and sitting on top of his duffel bag, sits a bouquet of black roses with a card tucked into a black envelope. Massive, the collection of flowers overflows the paper they’ve been wrapped in and when Shiro picks them up, he takes care to avoid the locker’s walls, so none of the roses will lose their heads.

Opening the card, Shiro wants to vomit. Aside from the pair of tickets inside—one for the Canucks’ upcoming game against Anaheim, and one for their game against Buffalo, next Friday—the message smacks into Shiro’s mind and makes him shudder.

Written in an unfortunately familiar, tightly cramped, upright hand, the missive reads, _“You skated beautifully, beloved. Another gold medal well earned. Would you have done that without me? Could you have achieved this victory, or your triumph last year at Sochi, without the inspiration and support that I provide you? Please, Takashi, reconsider this decision and call me. We can work out whatever problems you believe have arisen between us. I love you, sweet boy. Ever yours, Maurice.”_

Yanking on his jacket, Shiro tries not to think too hard. His thoughts rush too fast for him to parse through them, anyway. Maybe Maurice is lurking somewhere, waiting to jump out and grab Shiro—but if he is, then there’s no way he’ll get away with it. Uncle Mitch. Nothing’s gone missing from his bag, his pockets. That puts his mind at ease, at least somewhat. But as he fumbles for his phone, Shiro can’t get his hands to calm down. How they stop trembling long enough to snap a few photos of this alleged gift, he has no idea.

Shiro takes his pics, though. He posts a shot of the tickets to Instagram with the caption, _[Anyone at #USFigureSkatingNationals looking for Canucks tickets? Found them in the men’s locker room. If nobody claims them by tomorrow morning, I’m taking them to Debbie at Greensboro Coliseum’s office.]_

The photos of Maurice’s card, Shiro keeps to himself, but they’re not meant for public consumption. If Uncle Mitch lets him junk the card, then Shiro might need to keep some evidence of what Maurice wrote.

The roses, though, Shiro tosses in the nearest garbage can. He captions that shot, _[Shame to junk my favorite flowers, especially when they’ve grown so well. They’re so beautiful, I’d keep them under any other circumstances. Too bad some people (_ ** _msendakofficial_** _) apparently don’t understand what “I am breaking up with you” means.]_

Back at the hotel, Uncle Mitch explicitly forbids Shiro from going down to the fitness center, not even if he takes Ryan with him for company. All things considered, it’s probably for the best. If Shiro didn’t run too hard, too long, and hurt himself, then he’d end up wearing out some poor treadmill or breaking it instead.

  


* * *

  


Slouching into the rental car’s passenger seat, chest heaving and heart pounding in his ears, Shiro can’t help but think that he should’ve kept a better eye on how long he’s spent out running.

He shouldn’t have left the house while so riled up, emotions raging through him with hurricane-force, all vying to claim his to claim the most of his attention, clawing and screaming and shoving their way past each other, rushing toward the forefront of his thoughts too quickly for him to process, much less entirely comprehend.

He should’ve told Obaasan a specific time when he’d be home, and he should’ve set a timer on his phone, and he should’ve paid better mind to whether or not he’s had reception. If he’d done any of these things, then Shiro wouldn’t be slumping against the door of this sedan, curling in on himself so he can keep as much distance as possible from the driver. If Shiro had taken better care of himself, or if he’d managed the situation more attentively, or if he’d stuck to any of his resolutions not to push himself to his physical limits and beyond, then he wouldn’t have put himself in the position to need a ride home like this.

 _Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve, always with the “should’ve,”_ Shiro thinks to himself, glancing toward the driver’s seat. Chest rising and falling more heavily than he likes, he drags his eyes up and down, trying to dredge up an idea of why his hulking, thickly muscled, broad-shouldered companion is even in California right now instead of flying from Columbus to Vancouver with his teammates, much less why he knew that Shiro was out on his own, pounding the dirt along the Santa Ana River Trail. He squints at every inch of that body, wishing that he didn’t know it so intimately but hoping he finds _something_ to make sense of what’s happening right now.

When this cold shouldered scrutiny doesn’t point him in the vicinity of an answer, Shiro shakes his head. “I don’t even want to know how you found me,” he mumbles, shoving sweat-soaked hair off his face.

Strictly speaking, this is not the truest thing that Shiro’s ever said—not even close, and the magnifying glass way that Shiro’s narrowing his eyes all too likely spells out this truth in mile-high flashing neon letters—but as he frowns over at Maurice, he can’t make himself regret lying. Part of Shiro wonders why he should even bother trying to feel sorry, at least in Maurice’s case specifically. With anyone else, he’d make a token effort, but— _How many times has he ever stretched the truth with me? How many times has he acted like lying to me was completely fine?,_ Shiro muses, knowing that two wrongs don’t make a right and finding himself hard-pressed to care.

With a shrug that seems neither casual nor steady, Maurice explains, “Your habits are nothing if not… I mean? This is not a criticism. Of course not. Right now, whatever you think of me, I am relieved that I—that _you_ , rather—that so predictable are your tendencies and your paths and your—”

“If you want to turn this into a reconciliation? Then let me off as soon as I get service back. Or let me off sooner, because I don’t wanna hear your fauxpologies.” Shiro scowls as his phone insists that he’s still in a dead-zone. His frown deepens as he realizes how badly his hand’s trembling. “I’ll keep you posted on when that changes. And I’m serious. If you’re trying to get me to take you back again? Save your breath, because I am _not_ interested.”

“Bringing that idea up unprompted might beg to differ, Takashi.”

“You just showed up in Riverside and _happened_ to find me while I was trying to call a cab home.” Narrowing his eyes, Shiro hopes that he pulls out a steely edge for his voice, even though his lips tremble around the simple point, “Given our history, Maurice? And that little _gift_ you left for me at Nationals? _After_ I told you to get out of my life? My suspicion here is _hardly_ unprompted. Especially since you’re supposed to be in Canada.”

Watching Shiro as if nothing else exists in this universe, Maurice starts to say something—but he shuts himself up with a gasp. He tugs the wheel, jerking the car back into their lane.

Shiro’s own gasp hits him so hard, so fast, he can’t feel his body. Did they crash? Did he die? No, no, Shiro must be alive; he can still smell Maurice’s heady, acrid aftershave. One of his hands clenches on his water-bottle; the other clings for dear life to his phone. Thank God, or the kami, or whoever’s looking out for Shiro right now, Maurice didn’t hit anybody while getting so distracted. Fortunately, there’s no one around to hit. But that could change at any moment. Friends or couples out for a nice Friday evening. Teenagers or students from UC-Riverside, enjoying the start of their spring break. Parents, just trying to get home to their kids—

“I think—Look, I think we’re getting close to the skateboard place,” Shiro mutters. “Hunt Park. They’ve got all kinds of public transportation around there. Just… Let me out, I can catch a bus to the rink, and Uncle Mitch can get—”

Maurice chuckles like the Devil himself, grumbling that he wouldn’t trust the buses around here, certainly not on Friday nights. Breath held fast, Shiro wedges himself against the door. Jesus, he can’t tell if his eyes are playing tricks on him, if his head’s muddled up in too many emotions for him to see things properly, or if the car really is swerving on the road that badly? But none of those options is good.

Neither is the way Shiro’s stomach keeps turns, lurching as if he’s going to be sick, making him hunch in on himself. Shivers wrack his chest and arms—but are they from Maurice’s driving? The way he keeps looking from the road to Shiro, despite the wheel in his hands? The way he barely whips into the turns in time? The stench of something else, something familiar, lurking beneath his aftershave? The head-throbbing, heart-thudding, gut-twisting sense that Shiro _knows_ that smell—Jesus, it’s familiar, so hauntingly familiar, but he can’t place what it is, only that he _knows_ that he should recognize it? 

Or maybe that’s all in Shiro’s head, too. Maybe he’s shivering because he’s hungry, he’s been running too long, and he’s in a car with an ex-boyfriend who must be gunning for Shiro to take out a restraining order, chasing after that goal deliberately and with the single-minded focus that Maurice always uses when he means business. 

Except Shiro catches another whiff of that… _whatever_ it is, the smell he can’t name, even knowing that he knows it. Out of nowhere, it might as well be 1997. Shiro’s eight years old again, except for how he’s actually twenty-six. He’s getting woken up and told that he’s not going to school today and Ojiisan needs to have a serious conversation about something that happened while he was sleeping, except that he’s awake right now, trying to get out of this rancid sedan that Maurice must’ve rented at the airport, squirming in his seat and trying so badly to smother all thoughts of his Mom and Dad, of how they died, of all the times he’s imagined how the tires on their car might have squealed as Dad tried to avoid what happened. Why are these memories even coming to his mind, right now?

Inhaling deeply, curling his hand tight around his elbow, Shiro bites down a shudder. He won’t get anywhere good by showing Maurice what he’d perceive as weakness. Anything that Maurice can use against him, Shiro can’t let him have that.

“There’s gotta be an In-N-Out around here somewhere,” Shiro insists, hoping against hope that Maurice listens to him already. “Even if I don’t have service, they? They might have a payphone—” 

“Do you have any money for a payphone, beloved?”

“ _Do not_ call me that. I am _not_ your beloved. Not anymore, Maurice. I thought I made that perfectly clear, so why don’t—”

“Answer the question, Takashi,” he snaps, snarling and baring his teeth like fangs. “If you do not have money, then you cannot use a payphone. So, what would be the purpose of my stopping to let you out—” 

“I _always_ have my wallet.” Putting that steel in his voice takes effort, more than Shiro can manage while also sitting up straight. Curling around himself more tightly, he lets slip a sigh. “Please, Maurice. Just take me to In-N-Out. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, I’m starving—” 

“Is that any different from your usual state of being? Especially coming up on Worlds.”

Biting his lip, Shiro chokes down a litany of objections. “None of your business. Whatsoever. Absolutely none—”

“Unless you decide to make it a matter of concern for me—”

“And I _don’t_ decide that. Period, end of discussion. I talk to my therapist, my nutritionist, my family, and my friends about that. _Not_ to you.”

“Do you _really_ think that visiting In-N-Out is a good idea for you, sweet boy? I know—of course I know—yes, of course, it might as well be California’s official fast-food? And yes, truly, it carries certain emotional significance for you, but…” Although Maurice’s tone and his pouty expression ache with how sympathetic Maurice wants Shiro to find them, poison seeps through in every word that stumbles out of his mouth, in the little quiver of his lower lip, in how he stops watching the road, all so Shiro can see the glistening, phony tears that threaten to spill onto his cheeks. “Worlds _do_ start for you soon—”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I want you to _let me out_. So I can call Uncle Mitch, go home, and finish packing before our flight tomorrow—”

“You can hardly call him if you do not have reception—”

“Then quit making excuses and take me to In-N-Out so I can eat something and use a payphone—”

“Stop ignoring my question: do you _really_ need an In-N-Out burger, Takashi? Especially right now, only three days out from Worlds?”

“God, for someone who loves accusing me of having an eating disorder? You really don’t know how to talk to someone who allegedly suffers like that.” Rolling his eyes doesn’t help, but Shiro allows himself that petulance anyway. “One of the last things you should do, if you think someone has an eating disorder? Is lecture them about their choice of food.” 

“If you do _not_ , as you claim—have claimed—love claiming, over and over again—I? If you are not sick in that way, Takashi, then what does it matter, how I discuss with you my concerns about—”

“Just let me out of this _car_ before I start—”

“You said to let you out when you have reception, Takashi. Do you have any?” When his phone insists that he doesn’t— _How can I not have any bars? I always have at least one or two out here. Hell, I don’t even need LTE, how come I can’t get 4G or Edge or_ —Shiro bites down a round of cussing. Maurice, however, simply takes a long breath to steady himself and smiles as if he has Heaven in the passenger seat. “As much as your pride objects to this—to accepting my help when it’s offered—do you not… Can’t you see how much worse off you would have been, Takashi, if I hadn’t come for you? Does this not show you how much stronger I can make you? How much better the world is, when we are here, with each other? When we are together?”

“Did you practice that speech in front of the bathroom mirror,” Shiro deadpans. Digging his fingertips into his right elbow, he tamps down the nausea building inside him, trying to claw its way up his throat. Forcing himself to keep breathing, Shiro squints out the windshield.

A flash of headlights. The blare of a horn. Maurice jerking the car again. Something rushing past them—

“Are you _drunk_?” The question snaps out of Shiro before he can stop it, and the answer pulses in the cold, dead silence that Maurice leaves hanging. “Okay, stop this car. Pull over. If you won’t let me out, then at _least_ let me drive—”

Maurice barks out a laugh, bitter and absolutely arctic. “As though you—after what I caught you doing, Takashi? Are you in any better position than—”

“I might be hungry, Maurice. I might be exhausted. But I’m _sober_ , which? Yeah, is an infinitely better state—”

“Do you truly think yourself superior to me?”

“I think myself a better driver than you! Largely because _you’re drunk_ —”

“You—you have already _abandoned_ me, Takashi. I come to you now, when you need my help, offering forgiveness and reconciliation and—and, and, and—and you would _wound_ my pride, spit that back in my—”

“I’m telling you to let me take the wheel before you get us _killed_ —”

“Cease distracting me with your—your beauty, and your excuses, and, and, and your—”

“Just stop the car, Maurice. I’m not judging, or condemning. Just stop the car and let me—”

Shiro’s breath hitches in his throat as the barrier rushes up to meet them. He freezes, wide-eyed. Can’t even flinch. Not until a _crack!_ splinters the glass around them. He grits his teeth, trying to let his body go loose. Like falling out a window. Like Lotor’s one friend, that guy he met in Amsterdam after the Torino Games, the one who smoked weed before falling off a balcony and somehow, that lack of tension helped save him from how badly he could’ve gotten hurt.

Shiro doesn’t count how many times the car rolls over. His throat goes raw, but he doesn’t hear himself scream. All he can think—the only thought that comes in clearly, through his swimming brain and throbbing head and the pain washing over him—is that the tires didn’t squeal.

  


* * *

  


“God,” Shiro grouses, “why is Twitter so _dead_ right now?”

“Well, I don’t know. Might have something to do with it being two in the damn morning.”

“Yeah, but Saturday night going into Sunday morning. So, people should be up to stuff. Or at least complaining about _something_. Also? Time zones. Like, it’s ten AM in England. And it’s evening at Worlds. So, where’s the activity on my feed?”

Sitting on the edge of his seat, over by the high table with the wheels that usually holds the trays with Shiro’s meals, Uncle Mitch looks up from the laptop that he’s fussing with. Silently, he arches the brow over his good eye, but in the face of that singularly unimpressed expression, Shiro only shrugs. So, Uncle Mitch glances to the other side of Shiro’s bed. He stares in that direction until Shiro sighs and joins him, as if Shiro needs the reminder that Obaasan _could_ be at home, in her own bed, rather than sleeping on a cot, in a room that perpetually reeks of sweat and antiseptic.

Quirking his left shoulder, Shiro huffs. “I told her that she didn’t need to stay here—”

“Yeah, because arguing with your grandmother always goes so well—”

“I did entertain thoughts that she might listen—”

“When in the sam heck has she _ever_ done that? You know where you get that quality, don’t you?”

“I’m just saying.” Shiro holds up his hand and the phone in his fingers, all Twitter timeline-surfing temporarily forgotten. “I’m not the one making her stay with me. I told her that she could go home. For more than just a shower or to pick up different things that I need.”

“You lost an _arm_ ,” Uncle Mitch points out, dryer than the Mojave. “You’re her baby—her _only_ baby—and you almost _died_. Never mind how she lost your _parents_ to a drunk—”

“Well, now you’re sounding like Keith, Adam, Lotor, Allura—”

“Maybe you should try _listening_ to us. Your friends called from Shanghai, I assume they’d want you to listen—”

“How’s the livestream setup going?”

This earns Shiro one of Uncle Mitch’s singularly unimpressed faces, and he doesn’t blame his godfather for that. Considering the gash on Shiro’s face alone could have killed him, all of his fussing and fidgeting must come off like ingratitude or worse, a lack of concern for his own well-being.

Given every stupid stunt that Shiro’s tried to pull in the past eight days—all the times he’s argued with the doctors about what he wants or doesn’t want in a prosthetic arm, all the times he’s sneered at the poor nurses who tried to get him to turn off one of the livestreams from Worlds and get some sleep, all the times he’s gone to take a walk and stayed out long enough that Obaasan considered sending Mitch and Satomi out as a search party—Uncle Mitch has ample reason for getting exasperated with Shiro. Moreover, Uncle Mitch’s annoyance comes out of love.

Even so, as Shiro slumps back into the hospital bed and its pillows, as he returns to sulking at his Twitter timeline and searching for anything interesting to read, he can’t help feeling suffocated. Between the hours or days-old tweets from Worlds in Shanghai and the cute pictures of cats, practically nothing jumps out at Shiro. Tepid gossip about which actors in Hollywood are sleeping with which musicians, articles about the same news stories that he’s seen on TV, speculation about who’s going to skate what at the exhibition gala and what’s going to happen on Monday night’s new episode of _Rupaul’s Drag Race_ —but Shiro doesn’t stop scrolling until a tweet crops up from ESPN News.

That the link mentions Maurice would get Shiro’s attention well enough. Only news about Keith could draw him in better. But he’s already won his first gold medal at Worlds, while the tweet about Maurice claims to have new information. Or what must’ve been new twelve hours ago, when ESPN first posted it. They tease that Maurice has a bombshell to drop about what _“really”_ happened, that night. With a blatantly clickbait-flavored headline, they promise intel from a new press release about the crash that put Shiro in this hospital bed, and God, do they deliver.

After news broke about what had happened, Maurice’s team only agreed with the Riverside police department’s report that he and Shiro had been in a wreck, that Maurice had been driving, and that they wished Shiro a speedy recovery. They ignored all statements that alcohol might have been involved in the wreck, focusing instead on the extent of Shiro’s and Maurice’s injuries. Unfortunately, it makes sense that the gossip rags focused more on that part, too. Drunk driving collisions happen every day, but how often can you report that two Olympic champions have gone through a barrier, sailed off the road, and come out alive, for all one of them lost an eye and the other lost an arm?

Reading or hearing those reports mostly made Shiro roll his eyes. Oh, now, though, his blood boils, fire rushes through his body, and it’s a miracle that he doesn’t scream.

 _“Although Mr. Sendak was driving,”_ Shiro reads through his trembling fingers, _“he maintains that he is not solely culpable for the accident that took place on the evening of Friday, March 20th—”_

“How can he even try to say that,” Shiro hisses. “I mean, seriously—”

“Son, maybe you should put the phone down—”

“How can he even call what happened an _accident_ —”

“Kashi, please. I’ve got the livestream working, just give me your phone and watch—”

 _“As previously reported, Mr. Sendak had ex-boyfriend and fellow Olympic gold medalist, Takashi Shirogane in the passenger’s seat,”_ the release goes on. _“Despite ending their romantic relationship this past January, Mr. Sendak still cares deeply for Mr. Shirogane. Mr. Sendak intended to visit Mr. Shirogane while in California, and became concerned when Mr. Shirogane did not answer any calls. Following certain suspicions, Mr. Sendak drove to one of Mr. Shirogane’s favorite running trails. Unfortunately, he found that his fears were correct and that Mr. Shirogane had terribly exhausted himself—”_

“Yeah, that’s such a cute spin on what he actually did—”

“Kashi, come on. We missed Esparza, but Miyahara’s about to do her program—”

“He didn’t _find_ me, Uncle Mitch—”

“I realize that. But right now, we can’t exactly—”

“How did nobody even forward this to us? Why am I finding out on _Twitter_ —”

“Because Bennett’s been handling _anything_ press-related for you.” Sighing heatedly, Uncle Mitch pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to clear out his sinuses. “Because you dumped an abusive prick, then that same prick got drunk and drove the two of you into a goddamn wreck—”

“ _On purpose_ ,” Shiro snarls, incandescent rage flaring up at the thought, brighter and hotter than ever. “I remember everything from right before the crash. If he’d applied the brakes, then the tires would’ve squealed, or the cops would’ve found skid marks at the scene, or _something_ —”

“Adam’s going on after Miyahara, right? Can we please just put your phone down and…” Uncle Mitch sighs, all but outright pleading. In the faint light from the hallway and the laptop’s screen, his good eye glistens with how much he wants Shiro to do the easy thing, for once in his life. “Whatever that bastard said, Kashi? Whatever he did—”

“He had that—that, that, that thing!” Wide-eyed, Shiro pauses tapping out a tweet. “The thing in his car. He used it to jam the reception on our phones, all so I’d think I couldn’t call you. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal—”

“Whether it is or not, I really think that we should—”

 _“Mr. Sendak categorically denies any responsibility for the_ ** _accident_** —meaning the wreck, but okay, sure, Maurice. Keep on using that misnomer _._ ” Shiro stares Uncle Mitch dead in the eye as much as possible while reading off his phone, only breaking off to check the wording of new sentences. _“He has said, ‘My only wrongdoing is in loving Takashi too much. I allowed that love to distract me, especially when Takashi attempted to rekindle the fire of our romance’—_ oh my God, he’s actually serious…”

Thankfully, the crash only claimed Shiro’s right arm. He still has his dominant hand. Before Uncle Mitch even reaches for his phone, Shiro manages to fire off his post, one of these new quote-retweet things, sharing the ESPN News article with a very simple comment: _[I mean, I’d say he actually MEANT for the crash to happen, but what do I know, I’m only the passenger whose arm he mangled, lol]_

Although Shiro keeps hold of his phone, he sets it facedown on the bed, in a show of token cooperation with Uncle Mitch. He has the best of intentions in his desire for Shiro to get away from Twitter and focus on his recovery. After all, Shiro’s desperately lucky that the wreck didn’t mess up his legs or spine; getting back on the ice should prove easier, once they let him out of here and following physical therapy. He’s further lucky that the Altean royal family are more diplomats and figureheads than anything, because that means Shiro can trust the promise that Allura’s Father made, saying that he’d work with Lotor’s Mother on creating a prosthetic arm that would let Shiro return to skating.

All up, it makes perfect sense that Uncle Mitch wants Shiro to surrender his phone, or at least start ignoring it. Yet, as Adam collects some of the flowers thrown to the ice for him, Shiro checks one of the buzzing sounds. Predictably, it’s a Twitter notification, a reply from some white boy who wears a a Canucks snapback in his profile picture: _[@shirokashi isnt it bad enough u broke his heart & cost vancouver somany wins this season, how can u even imply something like that abt him]_

While Uncle Mitch gets up to find some coffee, Shiro shoots back, _[@jim_gocanucks Not implying anything, I’m telling you that he did nothing to stop the crash from happening]_

Within seconds, the reply comes in: _[@shirokashi yeah cos he was so worried bout u, he got distracted, forgot the road, so yeah that sounds like UR fault, shirogane]_

_[@jim_gocanucks That isn’t what happened. He was swerving out of our lane before we crashed. Source: I was in the car, telling him to pull over]_

_[@shirokashi what, like he was driving drunk? ok sure]_

_[@jim_gocanucks I can’t say for sure, but I & the Riverside cops think so. Maurice reeked like he does when he tries to cover up his drinking]_

Uncle Mitch sets two styrofoam cups of coffee down by the laptop, claiming only one for himself. Instinctively, Shiro angles himself toward the wheeled table. Something tingles down his side and shoulder, and the coffee doesn’t get picked up, much less come any closer to Shiro’s mouth. Pouting at the empty space where his right arm used to be, Shiro shakes his head. Will this keep happening, once he gets properly fitted for a prosthetic? When King Alfor and Lady Honerva come up with his bionic arm, will Shiro still have these moments of looking for his organic arm, coming up empty, and feeling its ghost anyway?

For now, he drops his phone in his lap and settles in to watch the silver medalist pairs skaters, drinking his coffee with his left hand. While Sui Wenjing and Han Cong enrapture the audience with their program, Shiro tries to ignore the phone vibrating against his thigh. If he closes his eyes, Shiro can almost imagine that he’s backstage at the Shanghai Sports Center, listening to Lotor comment on every minute flaw he can find and every tiny thing he personally doesn’t much enjoy in Sui and Han’s performance. With enough focus, Shiro almost lets himself believe that he’s getting ready to skate his program to the Judas Priest cover of “Diamonds and Rust.”

 _Maybe it’s better that I didn’t get to do that_ , Shiro muses, swishing the last couple sips around in his cup. _Skating to heavy metal? Surely would’ve scandalized everybody watching. Giving a bunch of strangers heart attacks? Sounds like the last thing I need._

Along with several other replies, the Canuck snapback guy’s retort waits for Shiro, once his coffee’s gone: _[@shirokashi bullshit. ur only saying this cos ur jilted & trying to get back at him like ruining his career wasnt bad enough]_

Humming pensively, Shiro fumbles through tapping out his own retort: _[@jim_gocanucks Actually, I broke up with him. I have the call saved. He was manipulative, cruel, controlling, abusive. So I dumped him.]_

_[@shirokashi u got some srs nerve, u know that, pretty boy??]_

_[@jim_gocanucks Maybe you have me confused with my ex. It sure takes nerve for Maurice to deny culpability when he drove drunk & didn’t brake]_

_[@jim_gocanucks If his career is ruined, it’s his own fault. All I did was accept a ride bc my phone wasn’t working & I couldn’t call help]_

_[@shirokashi all HE did was love u & ur throwin it in his face & making accusations like this, of all the fucking nerve]_

Shiro’s fingers clench so tight around his phone, it’s a wonder that he doesn’t break the stupid thing. As he paws through his old photos, trying to pick out the best ones to make his point, he has no idea how he keeps his hand from trembling hard enough to shake the phone out of his head. A cold stillness has dropped onto him, biting at his nerves and the inside of his chest. Each breath drags its feet, going into him, but that only fills Shiro with a steely resolve to see this through. Firing off six tweets in quick succession, relief floods over Shiro—but even then, he knows things are just getting started.

_[@jim_gocanucks If this is what Maurice calls “love,” then I don’t want it]_

_[@jim_gocanucks If this is what YOU PERSONALLY call “love,” then I feel sorry for anybody who dates you]_

_[@jim_gocanucks If this is what anyone calls “love,” then I have several problems with their definition of that word]_

_[@jim_gocanucks I’ve known love in my life, thanks to my family, my friends, & other men, but NOT Maurice]_

_[@jim_gocanucks None of what Maurice showed me was love. He abused me. This was abuse, period.]_

_[@jim_gocanucks Remember: this is Maurice when he “LOVES” someone. Is this really the kind of person you want captaining your team, Jim?]_

With each one, he includes four screenshots of his and Maurice’s texts, picture evidence he’s collected over the years. In some of them, Maurice demands to know why practices, or smaller bloc competitions, or interviews and scheduled appearances are more important than coming to his games. In others, he blows off Shiro accuses Shiro of cheating on him with Adam, with Lotor, with George, with Yuki, with Chris Evans, with Keith, as though Keith would ever sleep with Shiro in the first place.

In two of the more recent shots, he asks why Shiro didn’t call him, says that Shiro must be lying to him about Ojiisan’s death and the funeral planning, and when proven wrong with a photo of the obituary, refuses to apologize: _[I lacked all of the information, but no one could blame me for wondering after your faithfulness],_ read some of those texts. _[How can you dismiss my fear of losing you to another so callously?]_

In a particularly telling sequence from before their first breakup, Maurice harasses Shiro for dick pics during the 2013-14 Grand Prix Final even though Shiro asks for him to stop: _[You are so far away from me. Even if Kogane isn’t there, West and the more Altean Cizar twin certainly are. Send me photos so I know that you aren’t pleasuring others and giving away what should always be mine]_

In an equally telling set of shots from after Shiro agreed to try and work things out, he responds to Shiro’s comment about getting lunch with Lotor by warning Shiro to mind what he eats: _[Worlds are coming up for you, beloved. Your performances in Sochi earned your gold medals, but they still weren’t what they could have been. A figure skater needs to maintain a certain physique, and you know you won’t do that if you indulge too much. You can hardly keep your figure if you slack off and eat ice cream. You saw what a mess Kogane looked like at the Five Stars, right? Don’t disappoint me like that, sweet boy. Make our long separations from each other worth that pain.]_

Seething and sick with the memory of getting that message, Shiro replies to the tweet with those screenshots: _[Fun fact: I’d actually LOST weight since the Sochi Games, largely bc trying to fix our relationship problems made me too stressed out to eat]_

Then another tweet gets tacked on: _[Not for nothing either, but Keith won silver at the 2013-14 Five Stars & set a new personal best score on his free program]_

Then, a third, before Shiro can talk himself out of it: _[But even if none of that were true, this is a TERRIBLE way to talk to anyone, much less someone you “LOVE”]_

Finally, in the last round of screenshots, Maurice ignores Shiro’s requests to stop texting him, begs Shiro to take him back, makes empty promises about how he can change and won’t lie to his therapist anymore, and when that fails, resorts to his too-familiar attacks: _[You’ll be nothing without me, Takashi. Leaving me for Kogane won’t fix anything about you. He’ll never love you. Not like I will. No one could ever love you as well as I.]_

Down on the laptop, the announcer at Worlds introduces Lotor, and Shiro should really put his phone down. He should watch his _migadi_ , one of his best friends, skate a program that means more to him than Lotor has had ample words to describe. Ignoring his phone takes focus and an absurd amount of deep breathing, even though Lotor’s program only lasts for three-and-a-half minutes. The reward, however, is opening Twitter again and finding a whole series of replies from Adam:

_[@shirokashi @jim_gocanucks Can 100% confirm all of this. Maybe not all of these specific conversations, but I heard a LOT of things like 1/2]_

_[@shirokashi @jim_gocanucks this when Shiro & Sendak were together. Sendak also used to come by my home rink in Vancouver to warn me off 2/3]_

_[@shirokashi @jim_gocanucks sleeping with “his” boyfriend, like Takashi & I have had sex since 2011 (spoiler: we haven’t). After a while, 3/4]_

_[@shirokashi @jim_gocanucks my coach had to file reports & requests w/ rink security to get Sendak banned. She was honestly concerned 4/5]_

_[@shirokashi @jim_gocanucks that he’d pull some kind of violently possessive bullshit over Takashi & hurt me, or her, or @realjamesgriff 5/5]_

Surprisingly, Griffin’s decided to chime in too, and offers something shockingly non-obnoxious: _[@shirokashi @jim_gocanucks @adambwest If it matters, he used to leave creepy shit in MY locker. Notes to stay off “his man,” that kinda shit]_ —and a follow-up tweet: _[@shirokashi @jim_gocanucks @adambwest For the record: I’ve never had sex with Shiro & am interested in someone else]_

More replies start flooding in after that, bursting through whatever remains of the dam that has, so far, protected Maurice’s career and his reputation. Coaches, choreographers, journalists, fans, and other skaters alike pipe up, all going off about different encounters they’ve had with Maurice, whether they also involved Shiro or not. For the first few stories that come out, it feels like each new tale gets more horrific than the ones preceding it. After that, they start hitting so many of the same themes and ideas that Shiro can’t keep them straight, aside from recognizing that they started awful, they remain awful, and too likely, they will only get more awful.

When some random fan tags Johnny, demanding his opinion— _[@JohnnyGWeir any thoughts on this drama with @shirokashi & @msendakofficial? as @shirokashi’s friend & ex-teammate?]_—he offers them, _[@sprklexmotion Can’t confirm a lot of the specifics in those texts, but they honestly don’t surprise me]_ and, _[@sprklexmotion CAN however confirm @msendakofficial hit on @shirokashi HARD at US Nationals 2005, when he was only 15, 1st season in seniors]_

Public at-tags from George still leave Shiro feeling strange, after how long they’ve hidden their friendship in the hope of dodging any possessive grumbling or unfounded accusations from Maurice. Nevertheless, George provides an opinion without any prompting: _[So proud of @shirokashi right now. It takes real heart to speak out about what he’s gone through]_.

The replies he gets on that simple tweet eventually provoke a litany of additions: _[I’ve known @shirokashi since 2006, not long after his “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” program at Torino. He brought that song to life on ice]_

_[In interviews after, he spoke so candidly & sensitively about his choices with the program. Including how he opted to wear an ACT-UP shirt]_

_[rather than “CHOOSE LIFE” so the sentiment of my shirt from that video wouldn’t get lost or shoved into a mess about abortion debates]_

_[Then, when asked why he cared about crystal meth abuse & increased rates of seroconversion among gay men, he answered, “Because I’m gay”]_

_[So simple, straightforward, earnest, like it was nothing. Then he went on about how much my music meant to him & I knew I had to meet him.]_

_[Since then, I’ve had the privilege of calling this creative, dedicated young man a friend & what I know of his last relationship sickens me.]_

_[Needing to hide your friendships for fear of a partner’s reaction is not a good sign, nor is policing your partner’s friendships acceptable.]_

_[Also, accusing a fellow gay man of using guise of friendship to sexually prey on a younger man? Sounds like projection, in this case.]_

Maybe it’s silly, but reading that thread, Shiro can’t help flushing pink with happiness and letting a soft sound slip out of his throat. This, this is vindication. Everything he’s felt, every issue he’s taken with Maurice’s behavior, Shiro was _right_ to object. Bemused at this not-quite-squealing, Uncle Mitch frowns at him, then arches an eyebrow at the phone clutched to Shiro’s chest. But with a shrug, he returns to watching the gala livestream, apparently satisfied that Shiro isn’t getting into any trouble that requires intervention.

By the time Duhamel and Radford take the ice, ready to show off why they won gold in pairs, Lotor’s decided to grace the discussion with his inimitable presence: _[I could say a great many things about the nature of @shirokashi’s relationship with Sendak, but shall restrain myself to the most telling one]_ , he writes. _[Namely: after Shiro dumped Sendak at the Sochi Games, Sendak called him, drunk & threatening suicide if Shiro didn’t take him back.]_

In his last tweet before announcing his intention to mute the thread, Lotor explains, _[This was wretched, manipulative behavior, and it seems even more sinister in light of @shirokashi’s comments about the night of their wreck]_

Which spells out Shiro’s thoughts exactly. Even watching replies crop up to Lotor’s tweet, Shiro can’t help the victorious smirk that twists up his lips—and Hell, why _shouldn’t_ he let himself have that? Physical therapy and recovering from this will, in all likelihood, go slowly and tiresomely. King Alfor and Lady Honerva could do their best work on the bionic prosthetic, they could combine Altean and Galra tech in the most innovative ways to help Shiro solely because he’s friends with their offspring, and regardless of how good it came out, that arm wouldn’t _guarantee_ Shiro’s full return to skating. Get him back on the ice in some capacity? Absolutely—but there’s still a risk that his competitive career will be over.

Like Dr. Hall said, during the session they had over the phone on Thursday afternoon, little pleasures will help see Shiro through the recovery process, so he needs to let himself enjoy them when they find him.

Little pleasures like, for instance, smirking and chuckling as your abusive ex starts racking up more and more accusations of abusive behavior, manipulative garbage behavior, unprofessional conduct, and generally behaving exactly like Shiro’s saying in his tweets. Most of the naysayers find themselves swiftly blocked, as does anyone who talks like a troll. For the most part, though, Shiro could let everything go, kick back, and enjoy it as much as possible, watching these allegations pile up so high that Maurice won’t be able to deny all of them. At least, he could until—

 _“I understand the reason why you’re sentimental, ‘cause so am I,”_ Ella Fitzgerald sings, musically haloed by a buzzing sound and only slightly muffled by Uncle Mitch’s pocket. _“It’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s de-love—”_

“Go to bed, _Corazón_ ,” Uncle Mitch murmurs into his phone, rubbing gently at his good eye. “…I _am_ at the hospital with Kashi. …Yeah, I finally got the livestream from Worlds working, Allura’s going on next, I? …He _what_?”

Cringing, all Shiro can think as Uncle Mitch turns to face him, is a single word: _Busted._

“Kashi. Phone. Now.” In case there’s any doubt as to his meaning, Uncle Mitch reaches out and mimes for Shiro to hand the dumb thing over. When he only holds it to his chest and pouts, Uncle Mitch sighs like he doesn’t have the patience for this. “So, Bennett says you’ve been up to something on Twitter. All of us who love you say that you need a damn break from the drama so you can focus on healing and—”

“What could be more healing than watching your abuser get _roasted_?” Slouching, Shiro groans; it’s a piteous sound, so it had better get his point across. “What could help me more than watching people come out of the woodwork to support me—”

“You could watch your friends skate at the exhibition gala? Without starting anything—”

“I didn’t even _mean_ to start anything, okay? It just snowballed, and can you really say—”

“I can really say that we could have addressed this in a proper, _professional_ press release, _not_ by going off about it on Twitter.” Heaving a sigh, Uncle Mitch motions for Shiro’s phone again. “I’m not talking about fully confiscating it, Kashi. I’m talking about you letting me take it for now so you can actually get some sleep, once the gala’s over.”

Unfortunately, as much as Shiro wants to protest this argument, he can’t come up with any _real_ points to support his side. He _won’t_ sleep, if he has the chance to keep checking his phone, pawing through his notifications for updates on what’s happening. Aside from that, Shiro might’ve invited so much chaos into his life by opening the floodgates like he’s done this morning. Even if the press leaves him alone for now, his ex might have other ideas. Blocking Maurice’s number doesn’t guarantee that he won’t get through anyway. He could get his hands on a new phone and try to call or text Shiro with that, thereby getting around what should.

Less unfortunately, Shiro doesn’t end up waiting long before Keith takes the ice. Skating to center-rink, looking like he has a somber program waiting up his sleeve, Keith bows his head and his hair wilts listlessly over his face. That cropped red jacket highlights his slender waist, making it look even smaller, and his legs look about a mile long, in those black leggings. Furrowing his brow at the screen, at the notes about Keith’s name and placement, Shiro can’t believe what he’s reading for Keith’s song choice. Keith’s been working on this program for a while, but there’s no way he’d look so melancholy while performing it.

Yet, a familiar, stirring keyboard line starts up and Keith starts off down the ice. As he kicks off into a triple loop, Steve Perry croons, _“Just a small town girl, livin’ in a lonely world! She took the midnight train goin’ anywhere”_ —and Shiro can’t help sighing. He can feel Uncle Mitch frowning at him, feel his godfather’s scrutiny making gooseflesh crop up along his arms while the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, but Shiro only manages a sigh. Even scooting closer to the laptop seems to far beyond Shiro’s abilities, until his body does it for him.

“Oh, no,” he whispers, dragging his palm down his face as Keith pulls one of his legs up for a Kerrigan spiral. “Oh, no, _Keith_ …”

“What’re you, ‘Oh, no’-ing about?” Uncle Mitch doesn’t get an answer, not immediately. For a few moments, Shiro wonders if his godfather might content himself with the silence and catch Shiro’s meaning on his own. But after Keith’s next jump combination, Uncle Mitch needles, “Kashi, seriously. What in the world’s got you all riled up about Kogane?”

“He’s choking.” Shiro’s breath sticks in his throat, refuses to dislodge itself until he slouches onto the wheeled table. Balancing on only one elbow feels precarious, slightly awkward, but until Keith’s program ends, Shiro needs to stay right up in the screen. He can’t miss a detail, can’t miss a single second of Keith’s jumps, his spins, his step sequence, when he gets there. “God, Uncle Mitch, this hurts to watch—”

“I dunno where you’re getting that idea? The crowd seems to like what he’s doing.”

True, they roar for Keith’s triple lutz, but—“That was supposed to be a quad,” Shiro says breathlessly, covering his mouth as if that might keep him quiet, as if saying any of these truths aloud might make the reality of them worse. “He’s in his head. Like, completely—”

“Again, with how the audience is eating him up? It sure seems like he’s”

“No, see how the ice went flying? This—these are little tricks for the sake of drama. Distractions, coverups, we’ve talked about them. But Keith, he? He’s better than this. Why is he even _relying_ on these cheap _stunts_?”

Uncle Mitch shrugs, slouching in his seat with the air of a man who doesn’t want another argument. “Maybe he’s tired? He just won his first Worlds gold. You weren’t exactly a bucket of energy after you got yours.”

Inhaling deeply, Shiro makes himself nod. Because Uncle Mitch has a point. Taking home any gold medal wears a person down as much as it exhilarates them, especially taking home your first from a competition that means as much as Worlds, and it’s entirely possible that Keith needs rest before he can skate to his fullest. They can’t entirely rule out the notion that Keith is overall fine, that he isn’t getting lost in his own head or too wrapped up in anything, and that any apparent trouble isn’t really happening.

Still, as the final chorus starts up— _“Don’t stop believin’! Hold onto that feeling!”_ —and Keith punches the air with no clear direction or purpose to the movements, Shiro groans and buries his eyes in his palm.

“You’re so much better than this, Keith,” he murmurs, only wishing he could say it to Keith’s face.


	9. Marseilles—2016.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone reading who’s acquainted with YOI canon: this chapter and the next one would be Sheith’s equivalent of _That Particular_ Grand Prix Final, i.e., the one where Yuuri comes in dead last, has a meltdown in the men’s room, gets screamed at by an angry fifteen-year-old, and then gets wasted on champagne at the banquet.
> 
> So, the next two chapters are the ones where Keith has an anxiety attack after the GPF exhibition gala, gets antagonized and bullied and emotionally berated by James in the men’s room (and…… Jimothy Griffin has Reasons for acting the way that he does? They don’t excuse what he does—and he’s the same age as Keith, so he can’t even cite his age as a factor here—but much like Yurio, there _is_ more going on here than just, “James antagonizing Keith like a jealous little shit”), and then gets incredibly forward with Shiro at the banquet while wasted on champagne.

Keith can’t breathe, that’s truer than the law of gravity.

Even with his exhibition program behind him, Keith can’t shake off the feeling that he’s going to vomit up his soul. Worse than that, he cannot breathe. The backstage area at the Palais Omnisports swims around him, bright lights glaring in his eyes, threatening to go black. Or to close in on him. Lock him up in a coffin and never let him go.

That sort of terrible fate wouldn’t surprise Keith, not even a little, especially when he _cannot fucking breathe_.

Which sounds stupid as fuck, even without Keith saying anything aloud. Technically, he must be breathing, since he hasn’t passed out on anything. But he can’t feel his chest. He can’t feel it rising and falling, as it would if he were inhaling and exhaling like he should be.

When he looks down, though, Keith sees his gold brocade waistcoat inching closer to him, then slipping away. It comes back, then once again retreats, then slips into a pattern. Dimly, through the din of Lotor’s commentary on Romelle’s program, Keith hears a sigh that’s too close to him; it has to be his own. Besides, no one else reacts to the sound.

 _Dammit, fucking dammit_ —Keith bites his lip. He chokes down a groan, lest he trouble anybody else with problems that shouldn’t merit any consideration, especially when they aren’t anybody else’s business. Why should other people need to hold Keith’s hand through this? Or explain to him that of course he’s breathing, no matter what he feels?

In the back of his head, a little voice that sounds like Mom reminds him that, if he stopped breathing, no one would be watching Romelle skate. Surely, they’d spot Keith on the floor, they’d notice how still he’d gotten—but as he buries his face in his palms, Keith can’t believe that. Why would anybody notice that anything was wrong with Keith, much less stop watching Romelle in order to come help him?

Nobody would notice Keith passing out back here, just like nobody would notice if he skips his and Lance’s commencement next week. Assuming he even makes it through their last round of exams without proving why he doesn’t deserve his degree. Lance would notice Keith’s state, if he’d only qualified for the Grand Prix Final. If he weren’t back in Ann Arbor, watching on a livestream and probably getting frustrated with the process of figuring out and applying for whatever kind of visa he’ll need to keep skating when he moves to Raimon in the spring.

 _No, no, no_ —hunching in on himself, Keith shakes his head; his temples knock against his knees— _no, don’t think about that, don’t let it in_ —he tugs his fingers through his hair, holds on hard enough to make himself gasp—d _on’t leave me leave me alone, don’t leave me by myself, don’t leave me out here alone_ —Keith chomps down on his lip again, he tries to breathe like that counselor at student health suggested when Thace made him go see her, Keith’s body won’t stop trembling, shaking all over like he’s got lightning in his nerves and veins— _fuck, of course I’ll be alone—of course Lansha’s abandoning me—him and Hunsha, they both are—but they deserve that, don’t they? Of course, they always have—_

Over on the TV, the crowd erupts in applause for Romelle. The other skaters clap and cheer for her as well. All Keith can do—the only thing he can make himself do—is hide his face in his hands and whisper the different Galran prayers he learned, growing up. They’re baked into his memory, Mom and Kolivan’s mix of Galran Orthodox Christianity and Galra pagan revivalism, and without any input from his higher brain (since it’s decided to fuck off on him, too), Keith’s mouth spits them out on the breaths that, apparently, he’s taking.

Who knows? Maybe _some_ kind of deity is out there listening. Maybe _some_ god will have mercy and pull Keith out of whatever storm he’s gotten lost in without going anywhere. He must’ve done that; that tempest rages around him now, real in ways that his chest and hands and legs currently don’t feel.

How he’s even made it this far in the exhibition gala, Keith has no idea. First of all, they shouldn’t have invited the guy who took last place in men’s singles to skate in it. Griffin would have deserved that honor more than Keith, and Kinkade deserved it more than both of them, yet Griffin and Kinkade weren’t given such an offer. Neither of them’s standing around the TVs, in the little group with Adam and Lotor and Allura, so they must be in the audience with everybody who doesn’t skate. Or maybe they left Marseilles altogether, but they can’t have done. They competed, so people will expect them at the banquet.

 _Fuck, the banquet, fuck, fuck,_ ** _FUCK_** —Keith yanks on his hair again. He could pull it clean out of his skull, if he isn’t careful. But the pain shocks through his scalp and neck, keeping him grounded, keeping him from disappearing into an ether of muddled, clashing, banging, impossibly chaotic thoughts about the banquet tonight, and how he doesn’t want to go, and how he’s definitely going to die there, and how Lance should’ve made it to the GPF instead of him. Those feelings all rush around each other in a haze, slowing only barely whenever Keith manages to take a deeper breath instead of panting like Kosmo after a long hike up the mountain foothill trails outside Thaldycon—

All this being the other reason why Keith shouldn’t have made it this far in the gala. Literally how has he not died, by now? Or at least put himself in the emergency room without meaning to?

No clue. Not a single goddamn idea comes to mind. But soon enough, Keith can’t find it in him to care.

Fresh off her applause, Romelle slinks backstage in her skintight red jumpsuit, the one with the black panels on her thighs and the insides of her arms, and the orange splotches over her chest. With her outfit and the little red fobs in her hair, she’s styled to look like some character from a giant robot anime that Keith has never seen before. Fittingly so, since Hunk said that she told him she’d worked out a program to the theme song from it. Without an apparent care in the world, Romelle eases up to Allura’s side and props her chin up on her teammate’s shoulder.

But if Romelle is back here already—a breath jolts into Keith. He throws himself up, out of the seat. Muttering apologies that he only barely hears, Keith elbows his way between Adam and Lotor. He wouldn’t call it luck, but Keith makes it up to the TV in time to see Shiro in his starting position at center-rink, wearing some black, ostensibly tuxedo-looking outfit. From what Keith saw of Shiro’s choreography at practice, there’s more to it than meets the eye. The most important thing, though: Keith didn’t miss Shiro’s program.

“Hello, Keith,” Lotor drawls pointedly. By his tone alone, Keith can guess he’s arching those stupid, immaculately kept eyebrows and angling for something that Keith doesn’t feel like giving him right now. “So nice of you to join the rest of us.”

“Yeah, uh…” Adam’s hand reaches for Keith’s shoulder—but he recoils before Keith’s really felt the touch. Tension knots up, refuses to come undone, just like Keith’s stomach lurches. But it’s only fair Adam doesn’t want to touch him; he could catch whatever Keith has that’s made him broken. More gently than Keith deserves, Adam prods, “You okay, Spitfire?”

Keith only shushes him. Not that he doesn’t appreciate Adam playing at concern for him. It’s fake as Hell, they both know that—no matter how many group-chats Keith gets invited to and no matter how many cat pictures Adam sends him, Adam is _Shiro’s_ friend, not Keith’s, not really—but it’s nice that Adam at least pretends to like Keith more than most people ever bother doing for him.

Still, though, a sound like chattering voices burst out through the arena. Then, a siren. As Shiro starts down the ice, a high-pitched synthesizer line trills, then gives way to a lively beat and bassline that almost gets Keith swaying.

Shiro jumps into a flawless triple axel as those pieces of his music meld together. Both arms over his head, he does Brian Boitano proud and the first applause of what will be many rackets through the crowd. Keith can’t hold their enthusiasm against them, but thank whatever gods care most about figure skating that the audience shuts up some before Mr. Michael’s deep, crooning vocals start: _“I think I’m done with the sofa. I think I’m done with the hall. I think I’m done with the kitchen table, baby. Let’s go outside…”_

True to form—especially while skating one of Mr. Michael’s songs—Shiro embodies the music. Sensuality radiates off of him, filling the arena even more than during Lotor’s free program and exhibition skate. With each serpentine swish of his hips and each piece of his step sequence, Shiro slithers through his choreography. Licking his top teeth, he shoots one of the cameras a set of _“fuck me”_ eyes that makes a hot, sick blush blossom on Keith’s cheeks and neck. Arching himself around _just so_ , Shiro glides backward on the ice as if that wreck from one year, eight months, and twenty days ago never even happened.

Rather than let anyone forget what he’s returned from, though, Shiro only wears a black cocktail glove on his left hand. Bending backward as if he’s swooning, he positions himself _exactly right_ , brushed his right hand over his forehead and hair. The light catches his palm, glimmering off the prosthetic’s silver-plated surface. With those simple movements and the play of light, Shiro refuses to let anyone in the arena pretend that he still has both of his organic arms, or believe that he didn’t work harder than anyone else to get this gold medal. Shiro’s done more than anyone else, fighting the difficulty of his programs, his own perfectionism, and the Hell he’s gone through, trying to recover and get back to the ice.

He could’ve retired after Maurice got them in that wreck, trying to kill them both because Shiro wouldn’t buckle and take him back. No one would’ve judged Shiro, if he’d quit skating after that—but he returned to the ice anyway, to the competition. By making sure that the lights flash off his prosthetic hand, he denies people watching the chance to erase everything he’s survived.

As if anyone needed further proof that Shiro’s a demigod on his blades, he pulls all of this off with a swagger that Keith can only dream of rivaling. He’s magnetic, enrapturing. Even if there were a hundred people on the ice, nobody could look away from Shiro, nor would anybody want to. About the only thing Keith can’t make sense of, is what Shiro starts doing with his hands as the song swells into its second chorus. He works them down his chest, undoing a column of buttons, but when he peels off the jacket and a layer that seemed like a white shirt, Shiro only reveals a navy button-up.

Wrinkling his nose, Keith blinks at that outfit. Sure, the fabric clings to Shiro’s skin, hugging his muscular chest and waspish waistline—but aside from the patch of silver gleaming over one of his pecs, Keith can’t see anything special about this costume. Certainly nothing that merits a full-on tearaway reveal. But, ostensibly unbothered, Shiro throws himself into a spin. He whips out of it right as Mr. Michael croons into the song’s bridge, and something black dangles off of Shiro’s outstretched arm, and—oh.

 _Oh_.

Keith nearly chokes on his own breath as he realizes: Shiro’s ripped away his pants. Right in front of everyone. Here in Marseilles, on the ice at the Grand Prix Final. He’s doing a program to a song about fucking outside, in a pair of shorts that match his shirt—navy blue with silver piping on the sides of his legs—and that only barely cover his whole ass.

The crowd erupts with cheers and catcalls that almost rival the fireworks going off inside Keith’s chest. Beside him, Lotor whistles. Keith would join him, if he didn’t feel like the world’s slipping out from under him and his heart’s trying to claw its way out of his fucking chest. He can’t compose himself enough to avoid gaping at the screen while Shiro takes his black, reflective aviator sunglasses out of his shirt, as he tosses them on with the tether to keep them on his head while he finishes the program. Keith splutters into his own palm, watching Shiro ease into an Ina Bauer like he has no idea how he’s dressed or how tightly that costume clings to his thighs and bulge.

God, Shiro _has_ to know what he’s doing. Strutting and sashaying through his choreography while dressed like a sexy cop… Bending and leaning into an arabesque spiral as if anyone in a fifty-kilometer radius could have possible missed the gorgeous, tawny-skinned skyscrapers that he calls legs or the way that his round, firm ass threatens to split that costume’s seams… Landing a flawless quad flip with his head thrown back, his face contorted in pleasure as if somebody’s fucking him right now, and his arms stretched up to the Heavens, hands grabbing at the air like a lover’s bedsheets and—oh, _fuck_.

 _Fuck_ Keith’s whole, entire **_life_** with a rusty spatula. Even with the song playing itself out, even with the crowd’s applause, even with Lotor correcting Romelle’s idea that no one has ever been so close to naked during a GPF program, exhibition or otherwise, Keith can practically _hear_ Shiro moaning—

“Plushenko stripped down to a gold lamé speedo when he skated to ‘Sex Bomb’ for the GPF in 2002,” Lotor says as easily as commenting on the weather. “However, one could argue that he did not strip _that_ much, because he was also wearing an horrendously tacky bodysuit beneath aforementioned gold lamé speedo. Head to toe, filled in and puffed up to give him the illusion of musculature. Shiro, on the other hand?”

“That body is entirely natural.” Romelle whistles, impressed. Down on the screen, Shiro grins, slipping off his aviators so he can take his bows—and Romelle cringes apologetically as another flare comes off his right hand. “Well, excluding _that_ arm. But he moves it like it might as well be natural.”

“It’s taken him a great deal of work,” says Allura, voice soft but bright, and all around, achingly earnest. “Even since Worlds—even just since _this season_ started—he’s gained so much more fine control over the prosthetic—”

She keeps talking, but Keith can’t make out most of what she’s saying. Swallowing hard, he tries to hold himself together. But without warning, his entire body shivers. Shudders—small and light, but only for now—they ripple through him, hotter than Hell and heavier than sin and twisting around his lungs, vipers made of nausea, and Keith _knows_ : he needs to get out of here. Before he vomits on someone’s shoes, or burns down the building with the fire raging through him, or starts crying, he needs to get out of here.

But as he heads for the door, someone catches his elbow.

“Keith?” Adam says, giving him a gentle squeeze, sounding like he wants Keith to believe he cares. “Hey, seriously: are you okay? Can we—”

“‘m fine,” he lies, his voice practically coming from the Land of Death. “I just. It’s nothing, Adam. I just have to go for a minute, okay?”

At least Keith’s throat doesn’t tremble around those words. At least Adam doesn’t press the issue or remind him that they still have to do the closing choreography. At least he lets Keith go and, somehow, Keith finds himself a men’s room hideaway.

  


* * *

  


Keith doesn’t know how long he haunts the men’s room. Long enough that more than one person knocks on the stall door to ask if he’s okay. Or if whoever’s in there is okay, more likely. Simple, casual politeness, because why would they care about Keith specifically. None of them has a voice he recognizes, so the lies come out of him, perhaps too easily.

Not that getting left alone here helps Keith any, because it doesn’t. Even once the room starts clearing out, he can’t calm down, can’t get anything right, because that’s something new and different for him, honestly, it’s shocking. He can’t feel himself breathing, but he won’t pass out. He can’t feel anything properly; he hears his fingers scraping on his scalp but it doesn’t feel real. He can’t stop shaking—not his arms, his chest, his hands, his lips. Curled up on the toilet seat with him, his legs quiver, knees grazing against his head, knocking into his temples, or he assumes so from the sounds.

He couldn’t even tell anyone when he changed out of his costume, much less how he did it. But he must’ve swapped into his Team Marmora tracksuit, because when he pulls at his shirt’s collar, it’s a simple t-shirt, not his performance outfit. Along his chest, Keith’s palm only finds cotton, rather than his waistcoat. Dimly, he hopes he didn’t lose that outfit, not after how much work Antok put into making it for him, specifically so Keith could skate his exhibition program to “Mr. Brightside.” Maybe Keith left it in his locker, or with Thace.

Another sign that his costume’s gone off elsewhere: a buzzing sound, down in Keith’s pocket, and then the digitized voice of Stevie Nicks, singing, _“She is like a cat in the dark, and then she is the darkness—”_

Fuck, shit, dammit, **_Mom_** —wincing, Keith fumbles to answer. He doesn’t want to talk to her right now—nobody should want to talk to him, either, not even Mom—but she’ll worry if he doesn’t pick up. Keith can’t do that to her. He can’t, he can’t—making Mom worry, that’d be unforgivable, more than anything else, right now. Granted, from her tone of voice, Mom’s gonna worry anyway, no matter what Keith does.

“Where _are_ you? Are you okay? Thace, is he… Are you with him?” She doesn’t sigh at his lack of answers, but it sounds like she wants to. Keith can practically see her, folding her arms over her chest like she isn’t mad, just disappointed. “We had a little viewing party for the gala, Keith—”

“You had a _what_?! A viewing—a whole _party_ —Seriously, Mom, why would you—”

“To watch you, Keith. It wasn’t anything fancy, only family and your friends. We put it together as soon as Thace told us you’d been invited to skate.” Once again, Mom sounds like she’d sigh if she didn’t think her exasperation might kill her only child. “Pidge and Matt miss you, when you aren’t here. Nyma enjoyed your program. And Klaizap—”

“Why did you invite _Klaizap_? He hates—Mom, ever since we were kids, he’s always hated me—”

“He does not _hate_ you, Keith. Why would you—” The choking sound comes in more loudly, this time. More clearly. More agonizing, as Keith’s guts twist with the force of how much garbage Mom _should not_ need to deal with from him, as his hands shake like he’s having tremors—“We all missed you in the finale. That’s why I called. Are you—”

“I’m not with Thace—”

“That’s not what I wanted to ask—”

“I’m by myself. Big surprise for—for, like—it’s just what everybody expects from the Lone Wolf of Marmora, right? But I—it’s not so—I better get used to it again, I guess. Before Hunk’s got culinary school and Lansha’s got his boyfriends and I guess I really am alone…”

Mind so overwhelmed, it all goes blank, Keith spits the words out. Or his mouth spits them out for him. Fuck, why is he saying this? Why is he saying _any_ of this? It’s not going to help Mom stop worrying, so why can’t he shut up and let Mom some peace of mind, or at least come up with better answers for the questions she’s throwing ? Hasn’t she already dealt with too much of this? Doesn’t she deserve a little peace, or—

“Mom, please, I…” Keith’s breath shocks into him, gets stuck in his throat. A sob creaks out of him without so much as asking for permission. It’s a cracked sound. _Broken_. Which is so fitting, because _Keith himself_ , in spite of everything he’s gotten from Mom and Dad, from Kolivan and Antok, from Thace and Ulaz, from Matt and Pidge and Nyma and Rolo, from Romelle, from Hunk and Lance and Allura even though she is, like Adam and Lotor, _Shiro’s_ friend, not really Keith’s—everything they’ve done for him, and he’s still just—“Mom, I’m so sorry—”

 _Broken_.

Some lucky star must be looking out for Keith; his floodgates don’t crumble until he’s ended the call. His hand goes still, so eerily still, as it pockets his phone. He feels his chest expand, taking in the deepest, slowest breath he’s had in hours. Then, the room swims around him. His eyes sting. They burn. Tears cloud and blur his view but won’t spill over until he squeezes them out.

Once he does, though, there’s no stopping them. Head in his hands, between his knees, Keith shatters. Sobs come out of him unbidden, just like the tears that won’t stop coming and the shame that crushes down on him, hot and swamping up his face, his head, his brain. Fuck, what if he can’t get control of himself? What if Keith never stops crying? What if he dies here, in the men’s room, in a fetal position?

 _Knock, knock, knock!_ —Keith’s head perks up. His eyes go wide, still spewing tears. He swallows thickly, frozen, staring at the door in front of him, rattling hard as someone bangs on it, and he tries to splutter an excuse, tries to say that he’ll only be a minute—

The door clatters on the stall; Keith’s words evaporate. On the other side of the threshold, James Griffin looms before Keith in his red and white Team Canada tracksuit, haloed in the glaring fluorescent lights. Despite the shadow cast over him from the backlighting, Keith can see that Griffin has his knee bent and his leg raised like he probably kicked the door and might need to kick something else. He doesn’t, though. Instead, scowling like Keith’s very presence makes him sick, Griffin stomps on the tile floor.

“What the Hell do you think you’re doing,” he snarls, spitting venom and not asking a question.

Which is good, because Keith doesn’t have an answer.

“Are you _crying_? _Seriously_?” Flipping his brown hair off his face, Griffin strides into the stall with Keith. He spreads his skinny arms so they fill up the stall, puffs up his chest like a bird defending its nest. “You came in _last_ , Kogane. _Sixth place_ and they still let you skate in the gala. What the _Hell_ do you have to cry about?”

Keith gasps. A sob tumbles out of him, and it makes Griffin sneer, growling soft and deadly.

“You’re such an entitled brat, you know,” he says, voice whisper-low and face mere centimeters from Keith’s while he narrows those beady little ferret eyes. “Some of us are out here—people like me and Kinkade—we’re always busting our asses, working on our skating, and we can’t get _anywhere_. Or _anything_. But you—fuck, you got _cocky_ after beating Lotor at Skate Canada, and you slacked off, and you _blew it_ here, and you’re _what_? Sobbing in the bathroom like a little _bitch_ —why? Because Shiro broke up with Sendak, his ex is going to prison, and guess what, he _still_ doesn’t want to be with you?!”

Keith’s fingers clench up. They dig at his cheek, just below his eye. Vaguely, he wishes he’d thought to trim his nails last night. They claw at his face like talons, like Keith could rip off his own flesh, and he could do the same to Griffin. He could punch Griffin in the jaw and it’d be what the prick deserves. Except Keith can’t make his arms move. He can’t find his voice; his lips twitch and wobble but don’t let him form syllables, much less words.

Gingerly, Griffin leans in and nudges his forehead into Keith’s. He hisses, “Everybody knows you’re only here because _Shiro_ choreographed your programs for this season. Maybe you should just _retire_.”

Another sob bleats out of Keith’s throat, the closest that Griffin’s getting tonight. As he slinks out of the men’s room, he mutters under his breath, “ _Disgusting_.”


	10. Marseilles—2016, pt. 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As said in the A/N’s for the last chapter: this is the chapter where Keith gets blackout wasted on champagne at the Grand Prix Final banquet, pole-dances in his underwear, writhes on Shiro while being incredibly forward about his feelings and making an indecent proposal about Shiro’s potential future as a skating coach, and then vomits on Shiro’s shoes because, as previously stipulated, Keith is wasted out of his beautiful mind on some very dubious champagne.

Between how Keith’s performances suffered at this competition and how skinny he’s been looking since he and Shiro shared the podium at the NHK Trophy, it’s more than worrisome enough when Keith disappears from backstage before the gala’s finale. Of course, Keith does what he wants and as he pleases; that’s basically how he and Shiro first met. Hearing Adam’s version of events, though, sets Shiro’s nerves right up on edge. As far as Adam’s concerned, Keith was pale and shaky before he wandered out. He barely said anything to anyone, he tensed up like he’d been slapped when Adam went to touch his shoulder, and it might be an honest miracle if Keith’s still moving on his own power.

“He just wasn’t in a good way, if you ask me,” Adam says, glancing over the tops of his glasses to the other side of the room. Silently, he cringes at the sight of Thace staring at the ceiling, leaving yet another voicemail that explains how he isn’t mad at Keith, or disappointed, or upset, he only wants to know where Keith is—which makes Adam shake his head. “Look, I shouldn’t have let him go, but? He said he’d be right back. Unless he’s gotten himself back down to Earth, though, he’s probably in no condition to answer the phone.”

“How bad of a not-good way are you talking?”

With a quirk of the shoulders, Adam makes a sound like, _“I don’t know”_ —but fortunately, an unimpressed face gets him to acquiesce, “Dammit, Takashi, I’m a figure skater, not a psychiatrist. But if I had to hazard a guess? Anxiety attack. That, or a panic attack.”

“So, ‘no condition to answer the phone’ is a diplomatic understatement.”

“Less diplomatic, more of an attempt at making you worry less. Which I realize is futile—”

“Not worried. Galvanized.” Huffing softly, Shiro zips up his Team USA track jacket and digs around in his pocket. “Keith might not be able to answer his phone, right now. Unless he’s out of a charge or he has the thing on silent, though? I can still use it to find him. If Uncle Mitch asks where I went, can you let him know? Please, Sunshine?”

“If I tell you that this is crazy…” Trailing off, Adam lets himself slouch. “I can’t stop you from going on this search, can I?”

By way of an answer, Shiro heads for the exit. As soon as he hits the corridor, he dials Keith.

Predictably, this gets him nowhere, at first. But Takashi Shirogane didn’t win six consecutive World Championships and four Olympic medals, three of them gold, by giving up. He didn’t claw his way back onto the ice, much less the podium, against all the prognoses that doctors upon doctors upon specialists foisted onto him and his prosthetic, by doing anything half-way. Moreover, he made a promise almost-eleven years ago, and Shiro won’t break it, especially not now, when Keith might actually _need_ Shiro’s help.

“Hey,” he says into the phone, when prompted to leave a message. Thinking of all the times when Ojiisan called with well-wishes before a competition that he couldn’t attend, Shiro keeps his voice gentle and warm. “Keith, it’s Shiro. It’s December 11th, 2016. We’re at the Grand Prix Final, at the Palais Omnisports, Marseilles. I don’t know where you are, specifically. I don’t know what’s happening for you, or why you went off on your own? I don’t know how you’re feeling, right now. But whatever’s going on, it’s going to be okay, Keith. Whatever you’re dealing with, you can do this; I know you can. Do you remember what I told you, back in Torino? I will never give up on you, just… Please be okay, Keith. _Please_.”

Ducking into the men’s room—the first one that he comes to—Shiro somewhat doubts that he’s going to have any luck. Surely, someone would’ve found Keith by now, if he were hiding here. Still, Shiro dials Keith again and says a silent prayer that Thace isn’t trying to get through to his nephew at the same time. Shiro makes himself keep breathing deeply, almost lets himself hang up because honestly, this is just the first place he’s looking. Keith might well be up on the roof, or—

 _Bzz! Bzzzz!_ —a vibrating sound, swiftly overtaken by a familiar, melancholy saxophone line and George’s voice belting, _“Tonight, the music seems so loud! I wish that we could lose this crowd. Maybe it’s better this way. We’d hurt each other with the things we want to say—”_

“……Huh,” Shiro lets slip without meaning to. If that’s Keith—and in all likelihood, it is—then it’s so weird that he’d have Shiro’s most favorite song set as his ringtone. He didn’t even think Keith liked this song very much.

But that’s a question Shiro can deal with later. For now, he follows “Careless Whisper” into a stall. There, curled up with his sneakers on the toilet-seat and trembling, Keith hugs himself around the shins. If he notices Shiro padding in and kneeling on the tile before him, then Keith doesn’t react. The fingers in his track-pants ball up tighter, but only when Shiro reaches for his unusually bony wrist—which… fair enough, upon consideration. Sighing softly, Shiro holds both hands up as if in surrender, so Keith can see that he means no harm, if Keith will look up at Shiro, even for a moment.

“Hey, Keith? It’s me, it’s Shiro,” he murmurs, keeping his voice loud enough to hear, but low enough that he can try to get a sense of how Keith’s breathing. Not very well, from the sound of it. Hopefully, Shiro keeping his own breaths even and measured will help Keith get more of a handle on his. If they get him breathing, then he’ll have an easier time of calming down. “Do you know where you are?”

“Marseilles. The Grand Prix Final.” Lifting his head ever so slightly, Keith shoots Shiro a doleful glare. “I didn’t—I mean, I don’t— _fuck_ , Shiro, I know where reality is, okay? That’s not what this is.”

Shiro wrinkles his nose. “You don’t sound—erm, I’m not judging, just concerned? But do—however you’re feeling, have you dealt with this before?” Getting a nod out of Keith is better than nothing, Shiro guesses. But they could still do better, so Shiro pushes on: “What does it feel like? Being suffocated? Or lost at sea? Everything’s crashing down on you, crushing you? But it won’t last forever, Keith, I promise—”

“I _know_ it won’t last forever. It never does.”

“I, uh… How do you mean by—”

“It’s honestly not a big deal. It gets like this a few times a month, for me, but it’s nothing, it’s fine.”

At Shiro’s incredulous, spluttering sound, Keith picks his head up further. God help him, Shiro barely chokes down a gasp. It wouldn’t help—all too likely, it’d make Keith feel like a burden—but Keith’s eyes have so much bloodshot red in them that Shiro’s twinge in sympathetic pain. Tears leave smudged, glimmering trails of black eyeliner down his hollow cheeks.

“Everybody gets anxious sometimes, yeah,” he says with the heavy, flopped out air of someone who’s long since resigned themself to pain. “Everybody gets overwhelmed. Sometimes, you lose your handle on that, and all you can think is how everything could go wrong, and the world feels like it’s falling away from you and you’re gonna die because you can’t breathe, or think you can’t, and—”

“No, Keith, that isn’t…” Straightening his posture, Shiro rests a hand on Keith’s knee. “It’s not like that. Not for everyone. Your brain, your feelings? They aren’t supposed to do that to you.” Which has got to sound like Shiro’s spouting nonsense, especially if Keith’s carried this with him for long enough that it doesn’t faze him anymore. Still, Shiro squeezes his knee and insists, “That isn’t how things are supposed to be. _Anxiety_ is normal, but you’re not meant to feel like you’re _drowning_ in it, like it’s choking you—”

“Yeah, that’s what Lansha—fuck, sorry, I mean _Lance_ —you know him as Lance—but whatever, okay? That’s what he says, but he doesn’t have to deal with anything like this. So, cool, he’s special, he gets the privilege of not having to feel like everything’s falling apart, but—”

“I’ve felt like that on and off for almost _twenty_ _years_ , Keith.” The words boil up and out of Shiro before he can think of stopping them. His own eyes sting, threatening to tear up, while an ache twists through his chest, strangling his heart because of how much pain and fear and stress Keith must be feeling. “It started after my Mom and Dad died. I thought it would never stop, that I was just _supposed_ to be like that. Because if I wasn’t _meant_ to be that way—if things weren’t _meant_ to be like that, if I wasn’t _meant_ to feel so stress-sick that I couldn’t eat—then why was I suffering, right?”

Keith blinks at Shiro warily, but on the plus, he manages his deepest breath so far. “How did you get it to stop?”

“A mix of things. Therapy, medication—which can be its own complicated mess—and then skating, obviously, but…” The soft sigh doesn’t give Shiro a chance to hold it back. Of its own volition, his left hand nudges Keith’s bangs off his forehead. At least Keith doesn’t recoil from the touch; instead, he leans his temple against the backs of Shiro’s fingers. “It’s not an easy road, Keith. But things don’t have to stay like this, just because that’s how they’ve always been. You don’t have to fight this by yourself, either.”

 _You could let me help you_ , Shiro wants to say, but doesn’t, because this moment is about Keith and what he needs. Even so, Shiro silently begs, _Please, Keith, let me help you._

Nodding, Keith bats his fingers at Shiro’s shoulder, then accepts Shiro’s offer of a hand to pull him to his feet. “I…” He draws in a sharp breath, peering up at Shiro’s face as if he’s looking for an answer to a question that only he understands. “Can I… I mean, you, and just? This…” A heavy sigh, and Keith slouches as he ducks his chin. “Can you get me to Thace? Please, Shiro? He… I need to let him know I’m okay. Relatively? Then, get ready for the banquet, I guess?”

Shiro agrees and, with his organic hand between Keith’s razor-sharp shoulder-blades, shepherds Keith back to his uncle. All the way, Shiro can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something unfinished about this conversation, but so help him, he can’t put his finger on what it is or ever could be.

He’ll need to address those questions later, though, after he’s charmed his way through the tedious banquet-dragon.

  


* * *

  


Shiro doesn’t know where the stripper pole materialized from, but he strongly suspects that Lotor was involved.

Frankly, it’s the only explanation Shiro has that makes any sense, and it comes together perfectly. If anyone present were going to pull out a collapsible dancing pole out of Lord-only-knows-where and set it up in the banquet hall, then precedent suggests that Lotor would be that person. As Lotor maneuvers around the pole—hanging upside-down, legs practically spread-eagled, silver-blond ponytail dangling nearly to the floor, miles of his warm, copper skin exposed and muscles flexing taut with each new position into which he contorts himself—Shiro can’t help recalling the “funeral” that he, Lotor, and Adam held when Maurice made Shiro hack off his old ponytail.

Almost five years after the fact, Shiro still has no earthly idea where his _migadi_ got that bottle of Altean juniberry brandy, how he concealed it so well on his person that Uncle Mitch didn’t even think to check, or how Lotor whipped the bottle out in the middle of the streets of Raimon like it was nothing. After a certain point in that evening, the only things Shiro remembers are the liquor’s aftertaste (sweet at first, until the fire kicks in), and running from a Dutch sex-worker whom Shiro had, in his increasingly stupid drunkenness, incorrectly assumed to be a cop.

That was a good night. Easily one of the best in Shiro’s entire, sorry life.

Leaning on one of the high-top tables and ruffling the prosthetic hand over his hair, Shiro can’t say whether or not tonight will end up on the list of good nights he’s had. He couldn’t guess about tonight’s presence on the list of bad nights, either. It’s definitely the most interesting banquet that Shiro’s ever attended, no question about that.

Then again, over by another table, Thace is rubbing the bridge of his nose and probably groaning into his palm. Before him stands a pyramid of empty champagne flutes, stacked so artfully that someone could pass it off as an entry for some independent gallery’s latest show on innovative forms of sculpture. Shiro counts no fewer than sixteen of the glasses, which probably explains a lot about the candy apple red flush on Keith’s cheeks and neck, to say nothing of the way he flings himself back at the pole as soon as Lotor’s feet touch the section of hardwood he’s turned into a dancefloor. He likely only meant to stretch out before going in for another round of this, but apparently, Keith has very different ideas.

“Hasn’t he had very different ideas from everyone else since you met him,” Adam points out, leaning on Shiro’s table, holding up his phone, and not really asking a question. Shifting into a better angle, he adds, “Honestly, though, Takashi? I think Keith threw out everyone else’s ideas as soon as he started taking off his clothes, if not sooner.”

“That is a very distinct possibility.” Slumping onto his elbows beside Adam, Shiro wrinkles his nose at the chill of his prosthetic hand on his cheek. “What I want to know is: does he actually feel better from earlier? Or is he just really drunk? Which don’t need to be mutually exclusive, but given how upset Keith was when I found him, I don’t know if I should trust the way he’s acting now? Especially since it’s not particularly _strong_ champagne, but if he hasn’t been eating properly, then…?”

“All very valid questions, but can you hold that thought, please? Two seconds, promise.”

Adam pops his tongue by way of letting Shiro know what he’s doing: shooting video with his phone’s camera, rather than simply grabbing whatever still shots he can. All this evidence has the same endgame goal—namely, giving Lance a treat, since he didn’t make the Final this year and stayed in Ann Arbor to prep for his and Keith’s last round of exams—and Shiro can’t argue with that. If Shiro were still dating Adam and Lotor, and he’d missed out on an event where Lotor got mostly naked and something like this happened, Adam would’ve made sure to share the evidence with Shiro. He’s considerate like that.

Which is probably more than Shiro can say for _Griffin_ , bug-eyed at a table on the other side of the dancefloor and holding up his own phone, gawking like he has some malicious notion or other in his head. But Shiro can’t accuse Griffin of that without proof, or else he’d make himself into the bully.

Without saying anything, Keith presents a compelling case for why Shiro can stand to let Adam take these few moments to collect more treats for one of his boyfriends. Even wearing a flush that suggests he shouldn’t be standing upright without assistance, Keith swings and dances like a seasoned professional. If not for the coterie of champagne flutes and the way Thace has started furiously texting _someone_ , periodically shooting nervous glances toward Keith, Shiro would guess that Keith were stone cold sober.

Then again, Sober Keith only lets himself go like this on the ice, and only selectively, at that. Moving to a song only he can hear, he contorts himself into a Biellmann position, hooking one leg and one arm up with the pole, using that arm to hold his other ankle over his head as he uses his hips to swivel around. Shiro can’t help blushing as Keith lets his head drop, eyes shut, shining curtain of hair brushing the skin of his back, exquisite neck arching so nobody can miss the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, and mouth open like he’s gasping or moaning or possibly both.

Burying his face in the prosthetic doesn’t help. All Shiro gets is the metallic chill on his burning cheeks and the imprint of his gaping mouth, smeared in lip-chap on his silver palm. At least Adam pops his tongue again, so Shiro’s free to groan about this and how gross it looks. Dunking a napkin in his glass of water, he frowns—

“God,” he mutters, “how stupid can I even—”

“Mmm, not stupid, Takashi. Distracted. You weren’t exactly thinking about what your hands were doing, which?” Adam whistles, nodding over at the pole. Blissfully unaware of this conversation—and probably everything else going on in banquet hall—Keith eases himself around, shifting so he’s upside-down. “I can’t blame you for being preoccupied. Not when one of your exes and the guy you’re hopelessly in love with are putting on a show like _this_.”

“Thank you so much for understanding, Sunshine,” Shiro deadpans, rubbing his eye with his organic hand. “Truly, the depths of your sagacity and compassion mean the world to me in these exceptionally trying times.”

“I know, right? You lead such a difficult life. A gorgeous, figure skating demigod, condemned to enjoying beautiful naked men. I have no earthly idea how you manage these feats, Takashi.”

“Yes, well, at least I have your friendship seeing me through it.”

“You could have so much more than that, you realize. If you’d remove your beautiful, stupid head from your sphincter and—”

“I don’t think Lance would appreciate hearing this.” Lowering his voice and frowning at Adam, Shiro explains, “From the way Keith tells it? Lance _has_ started to see more of _Shiro_ and less of Takashi Shirogane: Living Legend. But he still looks up to me, and given that we—you and I and Lotor—used to be romantically entangled, I could see him taking—”

“Oh, what the _fuck_.” Huffing like a particularly offended teakettle, Adam wrinkles his nose and searches Shiro’s face for any sign that he’s being had. “I’m not _talking_ about you and me, Fuckhead,” Adam says, dropping in Yuki’s nickname for Shiro, which he richly deserves to hear, in most normal circumstances. “However much I didn’t like it, back at the time? You were right; we’re better for each other as friends—meaning, _**non** -sexual_ friends. I was talking about… _y’know_ , somebody _else_?”

As he nods toward the dancefloor, Adam’s eyebrows threaten to arch clear off his forehead.

Granted, Keith currently deserves that reaction and then some. Abs pulled taut and dangerously long legs stretching to the Heavens, he could be doing a handstand. If Shiro could see Keith’s hands, that’s what his guess would be. Instead, Keith’s arms have disappeared behind his back. Slithering up and down, swishing his hips like a dancing siren, he seems to keep himself up with his ankles, hooked around the pole, and almost certainly with his hands, for all he doesn’t let anybody see them. His crimson tie, the last remnant of his suit, flops over onto his face, but Keith doesn’t seem to care.

“I think he has that one song Iverson wouldn’t let you skate to playing in his head,” Adam says, returning to snapping photos.

“You’re gonna need to get more specific. Uncle Mitch has vetoed a lot of my song choices.”

“Oh, come, you know—the one that’s like, _‘Oh, I don’t want anybody else. When I think about you, I touch myself’_?”

Now that Adam’s pointed out this possibility, Shiro can see why he thinks it’s on the table. Humming the song, Shiro notices how Keith’s writhing does seem to sync up with The Divinyls’ midtempo, ecstatic ode to self-love. Spreading his legs into a split, thrusting his cut hips at thin air and rattling the pole with his backside, Keith practically oozes through the motions of his dance. Everything looking easy as pie or breathing—which means he must’ve done a _lot_ of work to get so good—Keith arches his back and flips himself upright; he doesn’t miss a hypothetical beat before he’s swinging around the pole again.

“Honestly, though? All I’m saying, Starlight—”

“Is a bunch of emotionally reassuring garbage, yes. But it’s still—”

“ _All_ that I am _saying_?” Adam’s eyes flash dangerously, shooting a pointed glance over the tops of his glasses and daring Shiro to say something stupid. “Is that you could have _all of that_ , and hopefully more when he sorts out whatever anxiety thing isn’t letting him eat properly. But instead of doing anything constructive, you insist on standing over here with me—one of the guys you _dumped_ —”

“It was a _mutual_ dumping and you know that—”

“—When you _could_ be getting in on something with the pretty boy who’s had your heart in his hands for long enough that it causes _me_ sympathetic pain.” With a huff, Adam adds, “You’re so in love with him, it could fuel at _least_ two new Adele albums. So, go do something about it, for once.”

Rolling his eyes, Shiro sighs more dramatically than he likes admitting. “Keith doesn’t see me like that, though—”

“How do you _know_ that? Have you asked him? Literally _ever_?”

“Not in so many words, no, but—I mean, really? Come on, Adam—”

“Here’s a bet for you, Starlight.” Pushing up his glasses, Adam says, “Go over there and talk to Keith. Obviously, you’ll need to talk again when he’s sober. But _in vino veritas_ , so if he starts suggesting he’s into you in any way, shape, or form, then I win. In which case, you choreograph a program for Griffin so I can stop hearing the little shit whine about how the only thing holding him back is that he doesn’t have you on his team like Keith does.”

“Sounds reasonable enough, I guess.” Shiro can’t help grimacing at the idea of working out a program for someone who’s made Keith as miserable as Griffin has—but whatever, it’s not as if Adam is actually going to win this bet. “What do I get when I win, though?”

“Frankly, I’m not inclined to give you _anything_ , since you winning will just validate all of the negative self-talk that you’re supposed to check yourself on more often than you actually do.” Even though he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, Adam acquiesces, “If you win the bet, then you can pick my exhibition program for Worlds and absolutely humiliate me.”

Pouting, Shiro protests, “I’d never humiliate you on purpose like that—”

“So, quit talking to _me_ and do something _useful_ already. Go over there and get your man, Starlight. Preferably before the champagne catches up with him and he ends up in a French emergency room.”

As though this completely settles the matter, Adam turns back to his phone and snapping pics to send Lance.

Since they’ve reached the impasse where Shiro’s only options are putting up and shutting up, he nods and slinks toward the dancefloor. The closer he gets, the more Shiro regrets taking Adam up on this bet. He can hear Keith breathing heavily, letting little moans slip out into the banquet hall, and _Jesus_ , Shiro doesn’t need that right now. He doesn’t need the heat twisting itself up in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t need the _longing_ that flushes through him as he watches Keith curl his legs up on the pole.

Wrapped up in his own little world and whatever music he is or isn’t hearing in his head, oblivious to Shiro’s advance, Keith makes one full rotation. He makes another without noticing how Shiro lingers, just off to his side. Then, a third, complete with a quick spread-eagle, legs splayed in the air and crotch rubbing on the pole. He goes through the full quad, and halfway into his fifth trip around, Keith unfurls one of his unfairly gorgeous legs again.

Pressing that leg against the glimmering, golden metal support, Keith stretches out. He eases into a split rather than springing into and out of a spread-eagle too quickly for Shiro to really drink in the sight of him. Except, Keith’s other leg remains _en pointe_ (as close to it as he can get while barefoot), while he nestles his chest against his thigh. As Shiro comes up to the pole, Keith bumps his face against his skin, nuzzling himself like a cat. Another breathy moan slips out of him, but Keith doesn’t sound like a bad porno, or like he wants to torment anybody.

If Shiro had to hazard a guess, he’d say that Keith’s little noises come more from him working out pent-up tension.

Watching him—watching how Keith moves, extending his body and arching his back and freeing himself up in ways that he normally doesn’t—Shiro gasps. That breath sticks in his throat, trying to choke him as Keith’s own inhale makes him lift his head. He looks so beautiful, so peaceful, that Shiro can’t even feel ashamed of the way he’s blushing. Yes, he’s in the banquet hall. Yes, people can see him going strawberry red and hotter than a sauna—but God, how can they watch Keith move and _not_ feel like something inside of them is dying from his beauty? Like their hearts have stopped while their souls catch fire in the best of all possible ways?

Despite his attempts at thinking about anything else while taking in Keith’s show—Hell, Shiro would accept thoughts about angry nuns, baby bunnies, putrescent corpses, or really, anything but what he and Keith could do with that flexibility and a King-size bed—Shiro can only focus on Keith’s face as he drops his head again, letting it loll back with that open-mouthed expression that he probably makes while getting treated to a deep, slow fuck. Everything is gorgeous, perfect. The entire universe has crystallized right here, in this moment, as Keith bends backward, arms stretching taut and hands gliding down the pole. One hand comes off, and Keith throws that arm back, probably helping balance himself as he dips lower and lower still, hints of ribs and hipbones popping out from how far back he bends.

And then, Keith falls. It all happens like slow-motion: his fingers unfurl, clinging to the pole as he goes lower. But then, they slip. But Keith fumbles, grabbing at the pole, then at the thin air. A sigh rushes out of him, half-swooning and half-resigned. Without that grip keeping him in place, Keith topples backward.

Shiro dives in, catching Keith’s waist in the nick of time.

Looking down at Keith, though, Shiro could be sick. Keith’s so still in his organic arm’s hold. He’s still flushed, at least. Plus, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest assures Shiro that, if nothing else, Keith hasn’t succumbed to alcohol poisoning from too much weak, lukewarm champagne that tastes like mixing orange juice and toothpaste.

But Shiro can’t trust appearances. He doesn’t know; things might not be as okay as Keith’s breathing would suggest. What if something else has happened, something that Shiro can’t see as easily as Keith’s abs, his collarbone, his long, incomparable neck? What if Keith didn’t want to be saved, or didn’t want Shiro to do the saving? _Dammit_ —Shiro’s head throbs like he’s the one who’s been drinking. His heart races, thrashing against his chest and clawing it way up his throat with a vengeance. What if Keith’s still hurt? What if Shiro’s done something wrong? What if Keith hates him, or…

…Or what if Keith lifts his head and breaks out into a grin as he paws at Shiro’s black silk lapels, ethereal indigo eyes shining as they focus on—

“Oh, _Shiro_!” Yanking on Shiro’s jacket, Keith flings himself against Shiro’s chest. His arms flop around Shiro’s shoulders, boneless until Keith’s embracing him. Then, they clamp around Shiro like a vise, like vipers, like letting Shiro go might literally leave Keith dead. “Were you watching, Shiro? Were you watching me dance? Lotor did—I mean, he? He _said_ that you’d be watching—”

“Of course I was watching.” Easing them up, going slowly and carefully, Shiro’s crushed with a feeling like peanut butter cementing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. All his thoughts rush around him, whirling faster as Keith crowds in on his body, clinging to him like a limpet and snaking his hips—“I couldn’t take my eyes off you, it? You were beautiful—you _are_ beautiful—if you moved like that on the ice—”

“Oh, _good_ ,” Keith breathes out, hot and heavy and reeking of alcohol, right up by Shiro’s ear. Nuzzling at his neck, Keith adds, “‘Cause it was for you, okay? All of it’s for you. I don’t care about anybody else—just. you. **_Only_**. _You_.”

Shiro nods slowly, throat closing up around itself like a cave-in, entire mouth shot full to bursting with metaphysical Novocaine because—God help him, and the Buddha, and the kami, and any ancestor who has any positive inclination toward him whatsoever—Shiro can’t think of a single thing to say.

Dimly, he wants to cringe, because Adam will absolutely hold him to the terms of their bet. But choreographing a program for Griffin will be worth it, no matter how much the process sucks, because Shiro got to hear Keith say a thing like that, because he gets to feel Keith’s hard, lithe body slithering along his own with no concern who sees them or who doesn’t, and he gets to feel Keith’s exhalations steaming up his skin. None of which helps Shiro get his head back together—or even in the vaguest vicinity of _together_ —and none of which helps him cut through the fog of scarlet that Keith’s dragged his mind into.

His silence must nag at Keith, though, given how Keith furrows his brow in concern. Blinking up at him with those painfully glimmering eyes, Keith pouts. His strong hips buck against Shiro’s, writhing along his crotch in a long, slow motion, and—oh, _fuck_.

Something hitches in Shiro’s throat, then creaks out of him, whining like a screen-door with rusty hinges. Swallowing thickly, Shiro wants to rend out of his own skin. It’s horrible, having Keith flush against him like this when he’s too drunk for it to go anywhere, fighting against himself and all of his own base impulses because he _can’t_ kiss Keith, not when he’s so obviously shit-faced, much less do anything else, not until Keith sobers up. The last thing Keith needs to deal with right now, is Shiro getting hard or worse, taking advantage of him.

Urges, however, have no regard for proper timing or the nuances of consent. Lust and longing and _need-_ ** _fuck_** _-want_ twine themselves through Shiro’s veins as Keith rocks into his hips again. A breathy moan up in his ear sends fire blazing through Shiro’s nerves, his stomach, the deepest pit of his soul—and because that torture clearly isn’t enough, Keith bumps his forehead against Shiro’s mouth. If anything, the tight, anxious, mewling sound that he lets slip is even worse than all Keith’s moaning. Between that, the nervous sparkle in Keith’s eyes, and the way they glisten, at an obvious risk of tearing up, every inch of Shiro’s body flares up in agony because _this entire evening is so singularly, targetedly_ ** _unfair_**.

Maybe not the worst of all possible things that have ever happened to anyone, but certainly up there on Shiro’s _personal_ list. Why, why, _why_ can he only have something he’s wanted so bone-deep badly, for _so agonizingly, gut-wrenchingly long_ , when Keith’s so drunk, it’s a wonder he can form any coherent words, much less entire sentences?

In lieu of saying something, not trusting himself with actual words right now, Shiro brushes Keith’s soft bangs off his face and—but, oh. Oh, _no_. His prosthetic hand—it must be cold on Keith’s skin, or too weird for him—Shiro’s organic fingers tremble around Keith’s waist, quivering as his mind goes blank, betraying him for any ideas on how to move his prosthetic hand away before Keith realizes what’s going on, before he gets disgusted, before he—

“ _Oh_ ,” Keith mutters, dropping his cheek into the cradle of Shiro’s silver-plated palm. “Oh, that’s _nice_ …”

“No, _you’re_ nice,” Shiro’s mouth splutters for him, thick and stupidly insistent.

“No, no—no, ‘m not.”

“Yes, you _are_.”

“Don’t have to pretend with me, Shiro. I already like you. Like you _so_ much, it’s literally…” With a groan, Keith slips into muttering something that Shiro doesn’t understand. He can identify it as Galra, and vaguely, he thinks he picks out _“akedalari”_ —the Galran-language word for _starlight_ —but aside from that, the words make no sense to him. Not that it matters, while Keith’s nuzzling his prosthetic hand and sighing like a contented kitten, as if he actually enjoys the feeling.

“‘m not nice,” Keith insists, burrowing against Shiro’s chest but leaving his face in Shiro’s hand as if he’s glued himself to Shiro’s prosthetic. “But you make me _want_ t’be nice. Like you make me wanna skate better, skate the absolute most, like I never skated before—”

“You skate beautifully, though, Keith. When you let yourself enjoy—”

“But I mess up all the time. And I get in my own head, it’s like you’ve told me, I let people get to me—”

“That doesn’t mean that you can’t skate, Keith. You’ve won gold at Worlds, you’re _good_ at what you do—”

“An’ I could be _great_ , though. If I had you…” He trails off. Another nuzzle shifts his mouth, and Shiro almost lets himself believe that there is no greater purpose to it—but then, Keith kisses his palm. Breath fogging up the silver plating, he whispers, “Always skate better when you’re there, being you, an’ believing in me, and—and, and, and— _fuck_ , I dunno what you _do_ to me, Shiro, but it’s like? So good? Just like you. An’ it’s _hot_ — _you_ are so hot, like—you don’t even know, I think, but you’re hotter than a hot spring, which, like? My _family_? We’ve a hot springs resort in Thaldycon, won’t you visit when the season’s over?”

Gently butting his head into Shiro’s hand, Keith so eerily resembles Aunt Satomi’s cats when they decide to like somebody. Except, unlike Aunt Satomi’s cats, Keith babbles as he gets increasingly incoherent, once more slipping into a mix of Galran and English. Moreover, Keith apparently likes Shiro more than Shiro’s ever realized, which he can’t say for any of the cats his aunt has ever adopted.

Keith’s more enrapturing than the cats are, too. With every little move he makes, Shiro’s heart pounds harder, until it feels like the hotel’s staff should come bother him with a litany of noise complaints. He only feels a ghost of Keith’s lips moving on him—regardless of how advanced King Alfor and Lady Honerva’s technology is, Shiro’s prosthetic will never have the same sensitivity as his organic hand—but when Keith insists on kissing Shiro’s palm, none of that matters. Everything inside of Shiro flushes warm as summer and lights up brighter than the island of Manhattan, and he can’t help gasping softly as Keith buffs his cheek over the kiss-shaped smudges that he left on Shiro’s hand.

“But you’re not just _hot_ ,” Keith says, “you’re also _good_. So good it _hurts_. An’ if I had you, I’d just… I mean, would you even…” He gasps himself, eyes glimmering like amethysts that really, really want something and whose happiness hangs on how Shiro answers whatever question’s troubling Keith’s mind. Curling one hand around the back of Shiro’s prosthetic, Keith whispers, “Come to Thaldycon and be my coach, Shiro? I don’t want anybody else. I don’t _need_ anybody else. But I could do anything with you, with how much faith you have in me, so? Be my coach, Shiro? _Please_?”

Shiro’s body nods for him without allowing his brain the chance to think things over. Which is fine, actually, because this sounds like the best idea that Shiro’s ever heard. Even before Keith’s face lights up, smiling brighter than the nearly-full moon outside, Shiro _knows_ , in his heart, that he could not possibly regret anything about this decision.

“I’ll call you to talk about it, ‘kay? To work things out?” Keith hesitates, waiting for Shiro to nod again.

Then, he lunges up while yanking Shiro down. Their noses thump against each other, but they don’t stop Keith’s mouth from colliding hard with Shiro’s. Luckily, it only takes a tilt of Keith’s head for them to fit together perfectly and— _dammit, fucking dammit_ , Keith’s mouth is so warm against Shiro’s own. His lips are so soft. He kisses like he’s starving for this contact, this connection, this chance to tongue at Shiro’s mouth and draw all the air out of his lungs.

Whining against Keith’s mouth gets Shiro a quick reprieve, space enough for a sharp inhale, then Keith dives in headlong once again, biting and sucking on Shiro’s lip until he coaxes out a long, helpless, yearning whimper. Dimly, Shiro recognizes the aftertaste of champagne, and something in the back of his mind screams at him to stop this, _now_ , to pull back and get out of this, because it doesn’t matter who started anything, because Keith is drunk and Shiro shouldn’t be kissing him.

As if he smells those objections, the way that animals sense coming storms, Keith moans into Shiro’s mouth, begging without words, each tight, throaty note aching like, _“Please, Shiro, you don’t have to say anything or make any special promises, just stay close to me.”_

Maybe it’s all in his head, but Shiro would swear under oath that he feels the air around them sparking, absolutely incandescent.

Maybe he’s imagining things, but his body is on fire and as his organic arm tightens around Keith’s slender waist, Shiro wants nothing more than to be immolated.

Maybe Shiro’s mind is playing tricks on him, or maybe his anxiety’s making things up because Shiro has burned so long already with how much he _wants_ this—with how much he wants _Keith_ —but when Keith finally pulls away, Shiro can’t help the twist of worry, scratching at his throat, because something about Keith’s smile seems… off.

Not bad or wrong—of course, Keith’s beautiful as ever—but his lips quiver and it just looks _off._

“Sealed with a kiss,” Keith teases, smirking blissfully and so impossibly pleased with himself (as he should be). “Means I get—means that I, like, get t’hold you to everything we said, and you… you, you, _yooooou_ … Jesus _Christ_ , you’re so fucking pretty, Shiro, and you just don’t even really…”

“Keith?” Brow scrunching up, Shiro gingerly tucks Keith’s bangs behind his ear. “Everything okay?”

Although Keith nods, he looks green around the gills as he bites out, “Oh, _fuck me_.”

A thousand remarks like, _“What? In front of the entire banquet hall?”_ flare up in Shiro’s mind—but they all die in his throat as Keith doubles over and vomits on their feet.

 _Well_ , Shiro muses, cringing as he scoops Keith’s hair back for him, _definitely the most interesting banquet I’ve ever attended._


	11. Kansas City, MO; Ann Arbor/Gangneung—2017.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as content notes go, this chapter is mostly in the clear.
> 
> Probably the most intense things are: some discussion of Keith continuing to meltdown on the ice, after the Grand Prix Final Of Tears; Ryan and Shiro discussing some of the comeuppance that Sendak’s earned, and specifically, the fact that Sendak sexually assaulted a fifteen-year-old, off-screen; and, as in YOI canon with chubby!Yuuri, chubby!Keith returns during this chapter (though without a lot of the really sketchy body-shaming that Yuuri’s subjected to left right and center in YOI).
> 
> On the, “This is technically an anachronism _but_ …” hand: in our actual reality, Troye Sivan’s “Bloom” didn’t come out until 2018, but I’ve elected to change that around entirely for the sake of one reference to Shiro using it for an exhibition program and Ryan ribbing him about how Shiro definitely has Keith in mind while skating said program.

“How long d’you generally wait about calling someone back?” Sitting on the edge of a table backstage at the Silverstein Arena, Shiro shrugs as if this question is a perfectly normal one that doesn’t have him tying himself up in increasingly complicated, anxiety-riddled knots. “Like, maybe, ‘calling back’ is a misnomer? It’s more like taking initiative. Like, if a guy says that he’ll call you to work something out, and then he doesn’t…?”

On the carpet, Ryan looks up from the split he’s stretching in and blinks at Shiro with the most singularly unimpressed expression Shiro has ever seen, this week. “You’re older than I am,” he points out. “And I’m pretty sure you have more experience than I do?”

“Not like this, though.”

“Not like _what_ , though? I mean, if you really want my advice, specifics would help.”

Shiro ducks his chin and scratches the back of his neck. Traitors like no other, his cheeks flush warm. With his luck, he must look like a tall, dark, flustered, Japanese-American strawberry—but Ryan’s showing him so much patience; Shiro can’t leave him hanging. Even if it takes Shiro a moment or two to steady his nerves, get his head together, and banish all thoughts of Keith’s naked abs sprawled and wriggling against him at the Grand Prix Final banquet. Nice as they are, those memories derail Shiro’s brain from everything else, which currently makes them the exact opposite of helpful.

Unfortunately, pushing those thoughts down allows different ones to rise. Thoughts of Keith in the livestream from Five Stars, slightly fuller-cheeked and looking less likely to fall over in a strong breeze, but with a sheen to his eyes that reminded Shiro of a corpse.

When he took the ice, Keith skated mechanically, detached from the songs until misfires in his step and spiral sequences caught up with him and he fell, popped, came up without enough rotations, and otherwise messed up jumps he’s landed so many times before, jumps that he’s known how to do for _years_. Worse than that, Keith didn’t recover from any of his crashes to the ice. Once he staggered back on his feet, he let everyone see how badly those tumbles rattled him. He hesitated in ways that he hasn’t done since his first season in juniors, teetering and pale and visibly unsure of himself.

In their texts with Shiro from the competition, Lotor, Romelle, and Allura all confirmed that Keith looked more than worse for wear.

 _[Your beloved gives me great cause for concern, migadi. From what he’s said about his free program’s composition, I have no idea how he’ll survive]_ , Lotor sent at one point, before Shiro could even ask for that day’s updates. _[He may not be a nervous wreck, but he looks as though he hasn’t slept in weeks. He wouldn’t even respond when I tried to bait him into bantering about Lance’s less-adorable habits.]_

Hearing things like this from them and watching it play out on the laptop horrified Shiro more than enough. He can only imagine how bad it must’ve been for his and Keith’s friends who were actually there in Sterlinburg, Olkarion’s capital city, for the Five Stars Championships. Being physically close to Keith but shut out of helping him as he fell apart, it would’ve killed Shiro. Not that anyone’s asked for his opinion, but he’s pretty sure that Allura, Romelle, and Lotor only survived that torment by virtue of being in love with Zethrid, Hunk, Adam, and Lance, respectively.

Of course, the press around the event added unnecessary insult to injury. Even when Keith broke down sobbing at the kiss-and-cry, looking at the worst free program score of his competitive career, all the figure skating gossip had wondered after was whether or not Keith had gained weight since the GPF. Never mind that doing so would’ve been _good_ for him because _God_ , in retrospect, he should’ve been heavier when Shiro jumped in and caught him before he toppled into the floor—

“It’s Keith,” Shiro bites out, digging his prosthetic fingertips into his flesh-and-blood elbow and pinching until he drags himself back to reality. “Like, circumstances mean I can’t completely hold him to anything he said? Meaning, things about the situation aside from how bad he’s been doing lately. But everything I want to discuss was _his_ idea, and I started really looking forward to making it happen with him in reality? Except he hasn’t called me back about it, so I’m like? I don’t know what to think? Or do?”

Humming, Ryan bends forward and grabs his foot. “Has he called you about literally anything? Or texted?”

“Not since the Grand Prix Final.” Even in his exceptionally warm track jacket, Shiro shudders, slammed by a sudden chill. Hunching around himself, he tries not to get too hung up on this, tries to push down the questions of how Keith could seem so into him—how Keith could kiss him like that—and then disappear from his life as though it never even happened. “And it’s not like I haven’t taken initiative in other ways? I’ve called, I’ve texted him, I’ve sent him DMs on everything, I’ve left I don’t even know how many voicemails—”

“I’m surprised this hasn’t hit the gossip rags.” Thank God or someone that Ryan’s tone stays light and more or less affectionate, or else Shiro might feel hurt when he deadpans, “The mighty Takashi Shirogane—hero of Team USA and unparalleled champion of men’s singles in the twenty-first century—brought so low, reduced to a complete mess by a pretty boy who didn’t call him back.”

“It’s not just _any_ pretty boy, Ryan. I’ve handled guys not calling me back just fine before. But _Keith, specifically_ …” Bracing himself, Shiro scrapes his organic palm along the table’s corner. “Anyway, the vultures probably haven’t noticed anything about this. Lately, they’ve all decided to speculate about when (if ever) I’ll retire, whether or not I still love Maurice, and if I’m only training so hard because I’m heartbroken over the rat bastard who abused me and how he’s going to prison, where he damn well belongs.”

“Jesus, seriously?” The roll of his eyes comes out in Ryan’s voice before he lets Shiro see it. “You only bothered anything with his trial because the DA called you as a freaking character witness.… I mean, that is why you went and testified, right?”

“Getting a subpoena does tend to make such things unavoidable, yeah.”

“No, I mean? Would you have kept tabs on any of that garbage without getting called to the stand?”

“Probably would’ve, yeah, but it’s more a case of…” With a quirk of the shoulders, Shiro tugs his prosthetic fingers through the long section of bangs that he hasn’t tied back in his ponytail. “First of all, after everything Maurice put me through? After everything he did to me, I both want and _deserve_ the satisfaction of watching him fry—”

“Sounds about right—”

“Secondly, I’m taking names and keeping tabs on some of the reporters who’ve been covering this. I don’t care if they work at _The National Enquirer_ , or _Us Magazine_ , or the sainted _New York Times_. They can’t just—” A hot, exasperated sigh bursts out of Shiro. Shaking his head, he feels like a horse beset by flies. “The way they talk about the sexual assault charges that the DA tacked on? It’s disgusting and I am not okay with it.”

Easing himself up out of the splits, Ryan gives Shiro a bemused frown. “How so, exactly? If you want to talk about it?”

“It’s not that I really _want_ to talk about it. But somebody _needs_ to talk about it, just…” Another tug on his hair keeps Shiro grounded enough to say, “If I see one more paper talk about how Maurice _cheated_ on me, I’m going to scream, Ryan. Because that’s _not_ what happened. Yes, he wasn’t faithful while we were together, but _cheating_ makes it sound like Brendan remotely consented. Journalists have a responsibility to report the _facts_ , and the actual problem here is not that Maurice put his dick inside of someone other than me—”

“The problem is that he raped a teenager. Right.” With a sigh of his own, Ryan joins Shiro on the table, sitting at his left-hand side. “For what it’s worth, man? I really respect that you aren’t letting those jerks trash that poor kid.”

“Letting this go wasn’t even an option, though. Standing up for him and telling them off is basic decency.”

“Yeah, to _you_. Fact is, ‘basic decency’ isn’t nearly as basic as you’d like—and some people might say that your personal definition of it goes above and beyond.”

“Maybe they would, and I’d respectfully disagree.” Drumming his silver-plated fingers on his elbow, Shiro huffs. “Same as I disagree with the idea that I should get any pats on the head or interpersonal cookies for saying things like, ‘Hey, can you maybe _not_ talk about a fifteen-year-old rape survivor like he deliberately broke up a relationship that was toxic, and abusive, and failing in its own right’?”

For several moments, Ryan goes funereally quiet. If not for his leg bouncing nervously—and if not for the fact that they both still need to skate their programs for this exhibition gala—Shiro might think he’d decided to take a nap.

Before too long, though, Ryan nudges his shoulder into Shiro’s. “Maybe that’s why Keith hasn’t texted you back? I’m not saying I _agree_ with this choice, exactly, if it’s what he’s doing? But he wasn’t doing so great at the Grand Prix Final—”

“Understatement of the decade, yeah. Possibly of this still-young century, even—”

“So, between that and how much you have going on for you right now?” Ryan shrugs, giving Shiro a painfully earnest look. “Maybe Keith just feels like he’d be bothering you when you’re already busy and stressed?”

Swallowing thickly, Shiro nods because he cannot, for the life of him, think up a counterargument. Were he in the mood for a wager, he’d bet good money that Ryan is, at least on some level, completely right. Whenever Shiro’s own anxiety has acted up, he’s felt like an impossible burden on everyone who loves him, like his very existence has weighed them down with nonsense that should’ve been none of their concern. It would make too, too much sense, if Keith’s feeling like that.

Shiro will just need to keep reaching out to him, then. As he fumbles around his jacket’s pocket for his phone, though, Ryan nudges their shoulders together once again. He keeps it up until Shiro relents and drops his organic hand into his lap.

“Mitch will give you an, ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ face if you get distracted, texting Keith.”

“True enough. I was just wondering if I care enough for that to affect me, tonight.”

“Don’t lie to yourself like that, Shiro. You absolutely care that much.” With a huff, Ryan curls one knee up to his chest and redirects the conversation: “You’ve been skating for Keith, haven’t you? I mean, your short program was to _Legend of Zelda_ music; he won that gold at Worlds with a Hyrule Symphony track. You set your free program to a cover of his exhibition music from Sochi that’s even more lovelorn than the original—”

“Please don’t make your next point.” Shiro groans, preemptively burying his face in his hands.

“And the song you’re skating to tonight?” Ryan inhales deeply, then recites some of the lyrics from Shiro’s chorus: “ _‘Come on, baby, play me like a love song. Every time it comes on, I get this sweet desire. Yeah, I bloom, I bloom just for you.’_ Which all sounds like something you might want to express to the boy who’s made you into such a human disaster area, hmm?”

“If I answer that question honestly,” Shiro says, dragging his hands down his cheeks, “then you have to tell me who’s actually on the intended receiving end of that ‘Undisclosed Desires’ program you’ve been working on.”

“Fine, fine, not my business. Duly noted.” Narrowing his eyes, Ryan pouts. “Y’know, this is why I’m the nice one.”

  


* * *

  


“Why do we have to be up so early again, exactly?”

Although Keith rolls his eyes, he doesn’t dignify Regris by looking up from the laptop screen sitting before him on the coffee-table. He has a third pint of Ben and Jerry’s, a giant mug of coffee, and a paper plate full of reheated pizza, all of which is more interesting than whatever complaining bullshit Regris has decided to be on, this time. More importantly, Keith has the exhibition gala livestream from Four Continents even though it won’t connect and let him watch already.

Unfortunately for Keith’s nerves and general desire not to make the neighbors file another noise complaint, Regris shuffles up behind him. It’d be bad enough if he only lingered there, making Keith feel his presence and leaving him no room to ignore how Regris stares at him—but never content with doing things halfway, Regris pokes at the back of Keith’s head.

Finally, the livestream hooks up, and Keith sighs in relief when they announce Mai Mihara. The end of her program, yes, but thank God-or-Whoever: Keith missed three separate alarms and slept through Adam’s exhibition skate, plus Lance’s and Kinkade’s—but at least Keith didn’t miss out on Shiro’s gala program. He’ll really need to apologize to Lansha, since he got invited to skate without making the podium, but Keith didn’t unwittingly skip watching Shiro. Which would be great, except—

“Honestly,” Regris sighs, continuing to prod Keith’s head like that’s his God-given right or something equally stupid. “Can’t you just watch his program on Youtube later?”

“No, I can’t. I mean, I _will_ , but I need to watch it live.” Which should settle the matter once and for all, if anybody wants Keith’s opinion. As if to spite him, Regris swats at his temple, nowhere near hard enough to hurt but enough that Keith growls out his annoyance. Trying to bat Regris’s hand away only makes him duck in for another _thwap_. “Nobody’s making you watch, _kralyamat_! Go away, if it really bothers you.”

“Yeah, call me a mother-fucker, just like that. This _totally_ convinces me that you’re fine to be up at this unholy hour, watching your _boyfriend_ —”

“ _You_ don’t need to be awake,” Keith drawls at his cousin-brother-whatever anyone wants to call them, because apparently, they never give an answer that satisfies any _normal_ people. “Go the fuck back to bed, if you want to. I don’t care.”

“Yeah, see, that’s a great idea,.” But rather than do the smart thing, Regris yawns skulks over to the coffee-pot in the kitchen, yawning so loudly that they can probably hear him on the other side of Interstate-94, over in Ypsilanti. “Returning to bed is a perfectly brilliant idea, Keith—except for how your roommates asked me to keep an eye on you while they’re in South Korea, because we all love you and are concerned for your well-being. Plus, there’s how Aunt Krolia will murder me if I let anything bad happen to her baby.”

“And I will murder you if you keep being a little bitch when it’s Shiro’s turn to skate.”

“Didn’t he already win the stupid competition? Why do you need to be awake and watching him before sunrise?”

“Because I _do_ , Regris. _Pizdestovi_ , fucking **_Christ_**.”

Whether this actually gets through to him or not, Regris decides to do the decent thing. As Shiro skates to center-rink, black leather jacket gleaming in the arena’s lights and most of his black hair tied back in a ponytail, Regris flops onto the sofa with Lance’s favorite _Killbot Phantasm_ mug. While the announcers call Shiro’s name, Regris only opens his mouth to dump coffee into it.

Good thing, too. Here Keith is, sitting on a hardwood floor in pajamas whose elastic waistband digs into his flesh more than Keith appreciates, resting his chin on his forearms while his t-shirt’s hem creeps up and exposes his midsection, feeling the rolls of chub on his stomach squish up on each other and ebb out toward his lap because he’s really letting himself go this time, and staring at the screen that provides his only way to watch Shiro skate. One of the last things in the universe that Keith needs right now, is to hear Regris say shit about ungodly fucking anything.

Whether it has to do with the long clumps of bangs framing Shiro’s face, or the way his skin-tight, cropped black tank-top shows off his washboard abs, or if the screen’s telling the truth about Shiro’s choice of music for this program, Regris can keep any commentary to himself. Fuck, Regris could have the solution to world peace in his back-pocket, but as the speakers blast a bass-heavy cocktail of beats, synthesizers, and sultry vocals that Keith only recognizes because of Lance, Keith wouldn’t want to hear a single goddamn syllable of what his brother-or-whoever has to say. While Shiro skates, slipping right into a role that’s equal parts lovelorn yearning and demanding seduction, the rest of the universe could burn down around him Keith wouldn’t have a fuck to give.

On the speakers, Ariana Grande trills, _“Oh, baby, look what you’ve started. The temperature’s rising in here. Is this gonna happen?”_ while Shiro slithers around the ice in time with her music, breathing it with every square centimeter of his body. Skating backward, he throws his hands over his head, as if anyone watching could miss what kind of fantastic, Adonis shape he’s in. As if he needs to elongate himself further like he isn’t stupidly tall enough already, pooching the song like he has it flowing in his veins. As if he needs to roll out his back and chest, undulating those gorgeous abs like a professional belly-dancer and silently begging for someone to yield to temptation and get their hands all over him—and fuck, if only Keith were in South Korea, backstage and waiting for Shiro to finish this program.

If Shiro would ever have him (which will never happen, for obvious reasons), then Keith would leave no sliver of his tawny skin unkissed or uncaressed.

Wearing a contorted, sparkly-eyed expression that makes Keith’s heart twist and burn and ache, thrashing and screaming against his chest, Shiro eases his arms down. Back popped in a position Keith remembers well from the pole-dancing lessons that Mom bought him, Shiro leans forward, reaching out for something—or maybe for some _one_ —and his pout embodies the lyrics so well— _“Been waiting and waiting for you to make a move before I make a move”_ —it’s as if Shiro only lives to manifest the song in flesh and bone and blood.

If Keith hadn’t spent the past thirteen years and change watching Shiro give this treatment to every song he touches—if he hadn’t spent the past seven years of those thirteen getting to know Shiro, earning periodic glimpses behind his curtains and into Shiro’s creative processes—Keith might actually believe that Shiro is the avatar of “Into You,” rather than a real human being.

Then, as if anybody and their mother fucking asked, Regris decided to ask, “Has… Has he even done a jump yet? Isn’t he the King of the Quadruple Flip?”

Without looking away from the laptop, Keith smacks the backs of his hand into Regris’s knee. “Shiro is an _artist_ , you fuck-stick,” he hisses, trying not to grin too much at the offended huffing Regris gives him. “There’s so much more to a good program than jumps.”

“Uh huh, sure,” Regris deadpans while the lyrics reach peak forwardness— _“A little less conversation and a little more touch my body!”_ —and Shiro slaps both of his toned thighs, popping out his ass like Keith isn’t dying enough already. Dragging his palms up his leggings (styled to look like ripped denim jeans), Shiro could be more liquid than a solid human. He rocks his hips and rolls his back like waves hitting the beach, which makes Regris whistle. “Y’know, if your boyfriend ever wants to get into making porn? I have friends who could use a guy who moves like that.”

The only retort that Keith pulls up for that— _“Except, for that to be true, you’d need to actually have a friend”_ —is far too cruel to throw out at anybody, much less at his family. So, Keith shoves his comeback in a mental box and focuses on Shiro more intently. Through the song’s bridge, he keeps up the same sort of routine he’s had going—snaking around the ice and oozing sex appeal, spins and spirals that make the most of his legs, throwing those doe-eyed, glimmering, sirenic expressions at anyone who looks close enough, which his body absolutely lures them into doing—but as the music swells into another chorus—

Shiro leaps into a flawless quad flip and Regris nearly chokes. While the crowd roars their approval, louder than ever because Shiro’s basically edged them into oblivion, saving his jumps for so long, Shiro kicks off the ice and into a quad loop, double toe loop, triple toe loop combination.

By the time the song finishes, Shiro packs in two triple axels and three more quads: a second loop, a toe loop, and closing out the program, probably the best quad flip he’s ever done. Through it all, he doesn’t skimp on the choreography or the emotion. Not that Shiro would ever compromise his art like that, but more so than usual, he radiates the longing and the pining that underscores this song.

For a blessedly longish while, Regris sits there in relative silence, watching as Keith refreshes Youtube again and again, and curses every time he comes up without video of Shiro to rewatch. In the part of his brain that tries to be reasonable about these things, Keith realizes that he’s being unfairly impatient. Uploading things to the Internet takes time, and the gala isn’t over yet. Still, as he spoons increasingly soupy Phish Food ice cream into his mouth, Keith somewhat-less-than-vaguely wants to lay a curse on everyone who could post the video of Shiro’s “Into You” program but hasn’t done it yet.

“So, uh,” Regris starts as Keith’s spoon first scrapes the bottom of his pint. “He basically stole Ariana Grande’s hair for that program. Which likely means another forthcoming celebrity shout-out on Twitter, right? How many of those is he up to, now?”

Making a sound like _“I don’t know,”_ Keith shrugs. “D’you want me to include any time Mr. Michael ever talked about him? Because they were friends for ages before he passed, that’s gonna take a while to count.”

Rather than give an actual answer, Regris opts for prodding Keith with, “Is it just me, or was your boyfriend’s skating, I don’t know, more melancholy than usual, this entire competition? Like, yeah, that program brought the sex appeal, and his Amy Winehouse free skate was just…” Regris whistles in a way that Keith can’t interpret, then slaps a chef’s kiss onto the end. “If you did not own that ass and my heart did not belong to Narti, I would take your boyfriend to bed in a heartbeat, Keith.”

“Will you stop fucking _calling_ him that?” Scrubbing at his eye, Keith wishes he could pull out some vitriol, instead of sounding so exhausted, sad, and broken. “Shiro isn’t my boyfriend, idiot. I haven’t even talked to him since the Grand Prix Final, okay?”

Not for lack of trying, on Shiro’s part. But at least half of the messages he’s sent Keith or left on his voicemail make no earthly sense. Shiro keeps going on about something that they allegedly discussed at the GPF banquet, something that sounds important and that he expects Keith to know about, all of which Keith has no idea how to begin addressing. Even if Shiro had reason to lie about a thing like this, he wouldn’t—but the whole banquet blurs together in Keith’s memory, from about his eighth flute of champagne to his thirteenth. After that, the entire evening just goes black. Trying to summon anything up mostly ends in Keith getting a headache or having another sobbing meltdown on his therapist’s couch.

Sometimes, Keith manages to get a little glimmer of _something_. He remembers something warm, and wet, and slightly sweet. If he dwells on those sensations enough, he could swear that he feels someone’s arm looped around his back. Other times, his left cheek gets chills like he’s rubbing it on a block of ice. Always the left cheek, never the right one, with no explanation in sight. Keith wants to say that he maybe might have kissed someone? But even thinking that brings hot waves of nausea crashing down on him and Keith cannot imagine _why_ , much less turn these feelings into anything worth talking about.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. He hasn’t returned Shiro’s calls, or texts, or DMs for over two months, at this point. In all likelihood, Four Continents are to blame for the few days that have passed since Shiro’s last message— _[Is this you?]_ , followed by four little black heart emojis and a picture of a fluffy black kitten wearing tiny angel wings and a glittery pipe-cleaner halo—but Keith wouldn’t blame Shiro if that ends up being the last thing that he ever sends Keith. It’s not like Shiro _knows_ why Keith hasn’t replied to him. He doesn’t know how many times Keith’s felt so sure he’d end up being sick, all because the guilt over leaving Shiro’s missives unanswered wouldn’t let Keith be.

“ _Soooo_ …” Regris hazards, poking his knee into Keith’s back as Keith opens up a Youtube video of a cat playing “Chopsticks” on the piano. “Is my other question too stupid? And that’s why you’re ignoring it?”

“Interesting theory. It could also be that I’m hopelessly in love with a living god who is so far out of my league that it isn’t even funny. Also, I forgot what your question _was_.” Since he’s seen this video before, Keith turns to look at Regris while he repeats himself, which earns a sigh. “Yeah, I guess Shiro’s skating did have that kind of air about it, this time? I mean, he kicked off the competition with ‘Wrecking Ball,’ which? He deserved to set a new personal best with that program, obviously. But it’s probably for the best that I don’t know who hurt him enough to make him skate it.”

“Hmm, I take it you’d do right by that song you used to love? The one where the girl got cheated on and destroyed her ex-boyfriend’s car? Something something, ‘dug my key into the side of’ something something?”

“Oh, Carrie Underwood would have nothing on me, if I knew who hurt Shiro, Regris.” In the silence of someone who has too many things to say, Keith wilts back and drops his head onto the sofa. Blinking at the ceiling, he mutters, “How much packing do we still have left to do? Also, remind me why I’m moving back home?”

“Because one of your roommates is moving to Raimon, the other is going to culinary school in Melainburg, and you don’t like Ann Arbor enough to stay here without your friends for company.” Sighing indulgently, Regris ruffles Keith’s bangs. “Additionally, you have recently endured an emotional downswing that was, at _best_ , moderately horrifying, and your therapist believes, like the rest of us, that having the stronger personal support network of Thaldycon would do wonders for you.… Also, Kosmo misses you only somewhat less than you miss him.”

“Guess I do miss him pretty bad,” Keith mutters. “Still doesn’t change how much moving fucking _sucks_ , though.”


	12. Helsinki/Thaldycon; Riverside; Thaldycon—2017.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with chapter 11, this chapter is relatively tame. However, it still contains: grief/mourning and references to off-screen death; Shiro having a particularly morbid sense of humor and metaphors when he’s all miserable and pining; and some more chubby!Keith (though, again, without any body-shaming that isn’t coming from Keith himself).
> 
> Then, on the, “changes from YOI canon” tentacle: Yes, “Stammi Vicinio” is Victor’s free program at Worlds, rather than his exhibition program. That’s nice, but I didn’t want to just copy YOI, so Shiro’s “Careless Whisper” program is what he’s skating at the exhibition gala.

Whenever Shiro’s imagined this moment before, he pictured triumph. He thought that, even if he hadn’t won another gold medal before showcasing this program, he’d feel flushed with pride, that taking the ice would be the culmination of so much hard work, so many false starts, years upon years of planning, revising, trial, error, refusing to give up on the idea of skating to his favorite song someday, and practice, practice, practicing.

After surviving the wreck and clawing his way back into competition, Shiro’s allowed himself to dream that he could encapsulate his entire career with this program. Maybe the song wouldn’t do that, in and of itself. But if there’s any song that Shiro knows well enough to fully embody—if there’s any song that he knows better than he knows himself and never fails to feel moved by, deep in his soul—then it’s this one, his favorite of all possible favorites. For so long now, Shiro’s career has been defined by his hard-won ability to bring the songs he chooses to life on the ice. This program was supposed to do that more than anything else he’s skated before or will ever skate again.

Granted, Shiro also thought that, as soon as he finished the performance, he’d go backstage and find his phone inundated with messages from George, wondering why on earth Shiro couldn’t choreograph a program to “Cowboys and Angels,” “Jesus To A Child,” “Kissing A Fool,” “One More Try,” or pretty much any of his songs _except_ for the one that Shiro loves best. Unfortunately, no one’s worked out a cure for death, so that won’t happen any more than Shiro’s dreams of condensing everything he is as a skater into this one program.

As he glides to center-rink, Shiro tries to tune out the announcers’ voices and the crowd’s applause. His mind’s cluttered enough as is, clearly focused on two specific things but overwhelmed by them regardless. Adjusting the rolled up sleeves of his suit jacket, Shiro takes a series of deep breaths. They don’t do much to steady him, but in fairness, Shiro has no idea if anything could manage that, at the moment. His heart won’t leave his throat, his stomach won’t unknot itself, and the butterflies in his chest will not stop fluttering like they want to make a hurricane with their delicate, tiny wings.

Somewhere on the sidelines, one of the commentators informs the crowd, _“The music he’s chosen for this exhibition is ‘Careless Whisper,’ signature song of the late George Michael, Shirogane’s friend and mentor, who passed away this past Christmas. They first met in 2006, after Shirogane skated to ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ at the Winter Olympics in Torino. He’s said that he wants to dedicate this performance to George Michael’s memory.”_

Tilting his head back, Shiro allows himself to huff at the ceiling. True, he does dedicate this program to George, to his memory and to everything he was in life. But he’s only one half of the puzzle, and as Shiro blows a kiss to Heaven, guilt twists around his lungs like it means to suffocate him from the inside out.

Given how important this program is, given the way that George’s absence in the world aches, how can Shiro still let Keith dominate his thoughts, the way he does? How can he remain so hung up on Keith and on whatever he might have screwed up so badly that Keith won’t even text him back, much less give Shiro a chance to set things right?

Good thing all that guilt fits the mood and spirit of this song, at least. As the familiar, melancholy saxophone line starts up, the only thing Shiro needs to do is what he always does on the ice: slice open a metaphysical wound and let his feelings bleed.

  


* * *

  


“I just fail to understand why he picked _this_ music for the gala.”

Heaving a deep sigh, Ulaz slumps onto his elbows and rattles all the other glasses on the table. As he swishes the amber liquid in his third glass of juniberry brandy, he squints over at the big-screen TV playing the broadcast from Worlds, tilting his head at Shiro like he’s taking in and trying to decipher a particularly perplexing piece of art. Not that anyone’s asked for Keith’s opinion, but if someone had, he’d gladly tell them that juniberry brandy always brings Ulaz’s critical side out, front and center, and turns Keith’s uncle into a walking, talking headache.

In the interests of not starting a fight down here, in the resort’s bar-and-dining area and right where guests and patrons could see them arguing, Keith focuses on the gala. He only looks away from the TV so he can jot down notes about Shiro’s program.

“Yes, I understand that this is his most favorite of all possible _songs_ ,” Ulaz drawls, utterly oblivious to any annoyance from Keith’s corner of their table, as well as Keith’s attempts at tuning him out.

To Keith’s left, Pidge sighs as if to say that she’s only enduring this for Keith’s sake, because he’s been her friend since they were kids and Ulaz is his family. To _her_ left, Nyma makes the sort of noncommittal, mildly dismissive noise that often precedes her blisteringly insulting someone for one reason or another, regardless of whether or not it’s particularly deserved. Even without a family-and-friends feud breaking out, the three of them could make people stare by sheer virtue of how much concentrated scrutiny they’re throwing at Ulaz right now.

Yet, Ulaz either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because as he pours himself another refill, he goes on, “All I mean to say is that the newfound penchant for lovelorn misery that Shiro has spent the past few competitions displaying? Doesn’t fit with the sort of image and character that he typically projects. Of course, his performances have remained beautiful—I doubt that he is capable of delivering any performance that one could term _sub-par_ —but? Mmm, nevertheless, this music and these programs would be better suited to someone less worldly, less experienced.”

“Yeah, sure,” Pidge deadpans. “Because magical demigod figure skaters _never_ get their hearts broken like the rest of us or anything.”

Underneath the table, she kicks Keith in the calf. It hits about as hard as a kitten playing with a piece of string, but if Pidge wanted to hurt him, Keith would know. She may not pack the most power into her punches, being so skinny and standing barely a hundred-sixty centimeters high, but Katie “Pidge” Holt fights smarter than anyone else Keith’s ever met before. She knows how to make the most out of what she has available to her, and if she wanted to injure Keith, then she’d figure out where and how to strike him best, which points of him are his weakest, and how to deal the most damage in a single blow.

As it stands, she’s probably more concerned with letting him know that she’s still in his corner. Maybe it’s something to do with them having been friends for so long, or maybe it’s something to do with how they initially bonded over being weirdos in their novice skating classes, but when Pidge gently roughhouses like this, Keith appreciates it in ways that he wouldn’t with most other people. For all he’s heard so many similar things and received so many similar displays since Ulaz got him home from the train station three weeks ago, there’s something about Pidge’s ways of communicating her affection that makes the messages stick in Keith’s mind more clearly than most people’s manage to do.

Not quite as clearly as an oversized wolf-dog mutt skulking under the table and plopping himself down on Keith’s feet and ankles, but that isn’t Pidge’s fault. Neither is it Kosmo’s. They get their similar points across in different ways, but the fact that he’s a dog makes it harder for Keith to doubt it when Kosmo lavishes him with affection. Even if he’s begging for food, Kosmo doesn’t show anyone love unless he really means it.

As Shiro finishes his program, the cameras zoom in on his face. Beautiful as ever, but there’s something  _off_ about his expression, something unfulfilled and begging. Thanks to the TV’s high-definition settings, Keith notices the tears glistening in Shiro’s eyes, trailing down his tawny cheeks. His breath hitches in his throat, and swallowing thickly doesn’t make Keith feel any more likely to breathe properly in the near future. To the tune of other people’s commentary on Shiro’s program, Keith looks down at his notebook, at the mass of neatly scribbled notes about Shiro’s jump composition, his styling, and the way he moved his body with George Michael’s so-called signature song.

While jotting down extra ideas about the program, Keith must go too quiet for too long. Someone snaps their fingers in front of him, but he doesn’t look up. Someone else jostles his shoulder, but Keith doesn’t feel like answering them.

He could do either of those things, if he really wanted to, but he needs to focus, right now. Before these ideas leave his head, Keith needs to get them committed to paper. This program was so important to Shiro. He’s been planning it since before he even debuted at the junior level; he’s wanted to skate to “Careless Whisper” practically since he first started taking lessons. Of course, he lived up to everyone’s wildest expectations—for several minutes, Ulaz can’t stop sniffling over how much Shiro’s performance ultimately moved him—and Keith _could_ be taking huge risks and digging his own grave. He _could_ play with fire by so much as entertaining ideas about skating this program.

Then again, playing with fire is probably part of how humanity invented cooking. This adventure, too, might prove itself worth the risk.

Before Keith knows which way is up, though, Pidge kicks him underneath the table again. When he relents and meets her eyes, she wrinkles her nose like an irritated bunny that’s already certain it won’t enjoy whatever answer it’s digging around to find.

“You have an air like you’re planning something,” she says, not quite snapping but leaving Keith no room for equivocation either. Without saying so outright, everything about Pidge’s tone sneers, _“Do not fucking test me about this, Kogane.”_

Which is probably fair enough, Keith supposes—but still, he replies with, “How hard would it be for me to block off some solo time at the rink? I’ve got something I want to practice, but I’d really like to score some privacy.”

 ***** ***** *****

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Starlight.”

Flopping out on the sofa at home only ever invites trouble, in Shiro’s experience. Most of the time, this means that one of the cats will decide to hate him more than usual and do any number of things to try and make him move. If he falls asleep, then the trouble’s more likely to manifest as knots all up and down his back and neck. One time, he didn’t have his prosthetic on tightly enough, and Ginger batted her mischievous little paws at it enough to loosen things even further and knock Shiro’s arm to the floor.

Currently, however, Shiro’s trouble is named Adam, and it looms over him, wearing an expression that Shiro can’t interpret, beyond gleaning that Adam is neither mad nor disappointed. Arms folded over his chest, Adam drums his fingers on his elbow, waiting for Shiro to give him an answer. In all likelihood, he’s gunning for an explanation that makes everything come together, clears up every alleged incongruity, and leaves Adam no room for wondering how it’s been two weeks since Worlds and Shiro hasn’t pulled himself together.

Since he got back from Helsinki, Shiro’s only left the house for practice, appointments with his therapist, one trip to the movies with Obaasan (which she practically had to beg him for), and a single interview. At that, the interview was with Jonny McGovern, the entertainment jack-of-all-trades who wrote that “Sexy Nerd” song that Lotor always dedicates to Adam whenever opportunity presents itself, and Lady Red Couture, consummate performer, drag artist, and McGovern’s glamorous co-host on _Hey Qween_. Hardly the typical interview for someone who just won a World Championship in anything, much less their eighth lifetime World Championship.

Then again, doing things the typical way leaves Shiro bored and stifled, while sitting on a sparkly pink couch, doing an exceptionally gay interview with an exceptionally queer pair of co-hosts, is one of the few things that’s made him smile in the past fifteen days.

Prodding at Shiro’s forehead, Adam sighs. “I came down here to visit because Obaasan, Aunt Satomi, and Uncle Mitch all said that you’ve been some kind of mess. Honestly, I’m starting to feel like they diplomatically understated the gravity of the situation.”

Over at the kitchen table, Uncle Mitch scoffs. “He _was_ doing a little better until I dragged him out of practice at a _reasonable_ time. Rather than, you know, letting him carry on like—”

“What was so _reasonable_ about that, though? I was just starting to feel something—”

“Yes, Kashi. It’s called exhaustion. You were wearing yourself out again, on purpose, which won’t help your career any.” Grumbling, he adds, “Plus, speaking personally, as your _godfather_? I’m against you pulling stunts that play hopscotch on the line between willful stupidity and deliberate self-harm.”

“That’s not what I was _doing_.”

“Can you blame us for thinking that, though?” Adam kicks at the sofa, and pouts when this doesn’t get a reaction. “See, the thing here is? If you don’t _say_ anything, we have to judge from what we can see. Which is all unilaterally pretty bad—”

He keeps talking, and Shiro knows that he should listen, because that’s what good friends who respect each other do. Even so, his ears prick up for something else: an unmistakable saxophone line, “Careless Whisper.” Hauling himself up, he looks around for where the music could be coming from. The only possible source, based on the sound-quality, seems to be Obaasan’s laptop, which doesn’t click at all. She can listen to whatever she likes, of course, but generally speaking, Obaasan _tolerates_ George’s music because her daughter and her grandson enjoy it, rather than genuinely liking it, herself.

“It’s a video someone posted on Facebook,” she says primly, shrugging at Shiro’s bemused frown. “That Keith boy you’re so taken with, Kashi. He’s—well, he certainly looks healthier than you were saying, a few months ago? And he… He’s skating your program, sweetheart.”

Shiro’s at her side in a flash. As Adam shuffles over to join them, Obaasan obligingly restarts the video.

Just as she’s said, Keith does look healthier, hardier. As he goes through the choreography, his own interpretation of Shiro’s program, Keith even looks… chubby. No question about it, this time; he’s definitely put on weight. Shiro’s cheeks flush hot as he spots the way Keith’s pudgy stomach bulges out and pushes his t-shirt up ever so slightly.

The blush soon spreads to the tips of his ears because God help him, Keith looks cuter than  should be humanly possible. He carries the extra pounds well, even though they’re throwing off his jumps. Despite that, Keith doesn’t get wrapped up in his own head for once. When a jump comes up under-rotated, he shrugs it off and keeps skating, giving himself over to the music and the movement. In vain, Shiro tries to muffle his soft little gasp in his prosthetic hand, but there’s no way he can hide the way his heart goes wild against his ribcage, beating like it wants to tear its way out of him. 

After Obaasan’s let Shiro watch the video for a third time, Adam decides that he needs to groan in protest. “You’re obviously planning _something_ , Takashi,” he says, scooting his chair closer to the table. “You’ve got that look you always get. Y’know, the one that precedes you saying things like, ‘In my defense, I thought the nice sex worker was an undercover cop’ and, ‘You know what my life is missing? A _Star Trek_ tramp-stamp.’ The dubious ideas look.”

“It’s an ‘Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations’ tramp-stamp, thank you—”

“Yes, but you got that philosophy and the symbol? From fucking _Star Trek_ —”

“Who cares where I got it from?” Quirking his shoulders, Shiro arches both eyebrows and silently dares Adam to challenge him about the idea he’s actually mulling over: “I need to go pack. And then, I need to look up the best ways to get to Thaldycon.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Uncle Mitch splutters, refusing to give Shiro the appropriately dramatic silence that should have followed him dropping that revelation. “Kashi, I love you, but have you lost your entire gay mind?”

“No, absolutely not. If anything, I’m feeling clearer than I have since the Grand Prix Final—”

“You are talking about getting on a plane, gallivanting off to Marmora, and doing… what? Dropping to one knee and proposing to Kogane? All because he skated your ‘Careless Whisper’ program?”

“Oh, no. Not yet, anyway.” Combing his fingers through his long bangs, Shiro counts to ten in his head and considers exactly how he needs to phrase this. “I made Keith a promise, at the Grand Prix Final. I said that I’d come to Thaldycon and be his coach—and _this_?” He gestures at the laptop, at the tab that Obaasan still has open with Keith’s video. “This is him reaching out to me. He’s sending me a sign, and I need to go to him.”

“Starlight, are you going to listen if I tell you that this idea sounds completely insane? More so than usual, even by _your_ standards?”

“Forget sounding completely insane—”

“Exactly, Mitch,” says Obaasan. “Forget about calling this completely insane when it is _obviously_ romantic and beautiful—”

“No, forget about calling it completely insane because it’s _actively detrimental_ to your career, Kashi.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Uncle Mitch fights to keep his hands steady, to keep his voice even, to keep himself from falling apart when he very obviously wants to. “Son, please, consider this more seriously. Think about what it actually means. You just turned twenty-eight. You’ve already pulled yourself back onto the ice—pulled yourself back onto podium after podium—and come back after an injury that, by all rights, _should_ have ended your competitive career. If you walk away now…?”

As he sadly shakes his head, his one good eye glistens at Shiro. “You might not be able to come back again, Kashi. After all the work you’ve put into building yourself back up, are you really going to throw that away? However much Kogane means to you, Kashi… Please, don’t do this.”

“Uncle Mitch,” Shiro sighs. “You’re my godfather. I love you. You’re the best coach that anyone could ask for—but Keith is calling out to me. He needs me now, and I  _need_ to go to him. This time, I can’t do what you’re asking.”

“What do you mean, ‘ _this time_ ’?” As Shiro heads upstairs to start packing, Uncle Mitch calls after him, “I’ve known you since thirty-seven minutes after you were _born_ , Kashi! Since when, exactly, have you _ever_ done a _**single.** flipping. **thing**!_ I’ve asked of you?”

 ***** ***** *****

Getting home from the rink, Keith tries to kick as much snow off his shoes as possible. He has less luck with rustling the fluffy white stuff out of his hair, but when he heads inside and over to the bar, Dad smiles and skips over telling Keith not to track anything on the hardwood floors. Judging by the spotty puddles trailing every which way, Dad’s tired of asking people to please avoid making too much of a mess.

“Don’t worry about cleaning it up, though. Regris has that covered.” Sighing softly, Dad works on putting away a tray of recently cleaned glasses. “Can you even believe we got snow in April, son? Honestly, if you wanna talk about climate change…”

“Apparently, it’s even affecting animals’ behavior.” That may or may not be true in a larger sense; Keith would need to look into it before claiming anything. But he frowns down the corridor, spotting no signs of Kosmo. Leaning to the side and craning his neck, he tries to glance up the nearest staircase, and still, no signs of his dog. “I mean, am I in the wrong here, Dad? For getting used to Kosmo running to greet me when I get home?”

As Keith slumps onto his elbows, Dad slides him a glass of fresh juniberry juice from the farm that Kolivan’s old friend owns outside of town. Without saying anything, Dad gently musses up Keith’s hair and returns to putting the cups away. Which is fair enough, Keith guesses, since they need to have the bar in order. No one’s rushing in right now—things are weirdly quiet for a Friday evening, even granted that the snow’s probably making people more inclined to stay home—but Keith won’t argue with getting that kind of break from turning into an overnight Internet sensation.

“ _Yeah_ …” Dad winces sympathetically. “How’s all that viral video stuff going? Has it calmed down any, yet?”

Keith shrugs. “It’s easy enough to ignore at the rink, I guess. Pidge and Matt don’t let anyone ask me about it. Klaizap took care of the one guy who wouldn’t back off, this morning. Then, a lot of the folks in town have decency enough to shut up and keep any opinions to themselves.”

Whether they don’t ask because they actually respect Keith’s privacy, or because they know that Mom and Kolivan will fuck them up for upsetting Keith, it doesn’t matter. People in Thaldycon avoid saying anything about the video that Rolo and Nyma leaked on Youtube of Keith trying to skate Shiro’s “Careless Whisper” program (which spread like wildfire as soon as Lotor got his hands on a link and shared it all over everything). No matter how much anyone around here wants to push Keith for information, though, they don’t go off in any of the ways they could. Therefore, Keith avoids one of the biggest stressors that’s been coming for him lately, which means he can sit at the bar and breathe, simply existing as himself—as _Keith_ , not as whatever people think of him from the video and his history on the Ice—and drinking his juice.

But not petting his Kosmo, apparently, which leaves Keith grumbling, “So much for man’s best friend, huh.”

“I wouldn’t take it personally or anything, son.” This earns Dad a bemused frown, but he’s still busy putting away the glasses and notices absolutely nothing. “We had a guest check in, oh, maybe an hour before you got home? Forty-five minutes to an hour, something like that?”

“A guest who Kosmo actually _likes_?” Not that he’s wrong for disliking a lot of the people who end up staying at the resort, but seriously—“What the Hell was this new person’s deal, then? Were they an artificial human made out of sentient dog-treats or something?”

“I know, it was the weirdest thing, but your good boy took to the new fella like that.” By way of illustrating his point, Dad snaps his fingers. But spotting Keith’s further perplexed expression, he goes on, “So, the new guest is this younger guy—well, probably older than you, but definitely younger than me. Really tall, broad shoulders, good-looking as all get-out, ponytail and pretty eyes, definitely your type—”

“Yeah, right,” Keith mutters. “Not unless he has a silver-plated bionic prosthetic for his right arm.”

“He had gloves on, so I didn’t get a look at that. But, he’s traveling by himself, which you’re free to go investigate, since you don’t actually work here. I swear, your Mom’s eyes about bugged out of her head, seeing him come in the door, and when she asked for his ID, I thought she was gonna faint.”

“Who was it? Ryan Reynolds or something? Oh, wait, he doesn’t have a ponytail, does he.”

“Nah, our new guest had an American passport, anyway. Plus, he definitely wasn’t a white boy. Not with a name like Takashi Shirogane.”

Spluttering, half-choking on his own breath, Keith knocks his glass over. Thank God, it’s empty. Thank God twice, Dad catches it before it smashes on the floor. But that spasm of Keith’s hand gets him stared at, and Dad’s silence begs for Keith to explain what the Hell he thinks he’s on about, or what’s happening to make him lose control of his arms like this.

“Are you _serious_ ,” Keith says, locking his gaze on Dad’s face. “Tell me the truth: are you having me on right now, or did _Takashi Shirogane_ legitimately come to Thaldycon by himself and check in to our hotel.”

Dad quirks his shoulders like he can’t believe Keith’s even asking him this question. “Where do you think you’re dog’s got off to, son? He followed Takashi out to the hot springs not too long before you got home from practice.”

On one hand, Keith’s mind pulls up so many reasons for him to doubt this story. Dad only really follows figure skating enough to keep track of Keith’s career. The first time he met Lance, Dad mixed up Johnny Weir and Evan Lysacek, which sent Lance into the kind of apoplectic mini-meltdown that only comes out when he’s morally outraged about something that most people probably find trivial. Aside from that, Dad is genuinely terrible at learning names and faces, even worse than Keith. Allegedly, he spent several of his and Mom’s early dates calling her by a myriad of affectionate nicknames because he couldn’t remember if her name was Krolia or Karen or Farrah, of all the ridiculous options to come up with.

On the other hand, Keith excuses himself and bolts toward the hot springs, sneakers squeaking on the floor. Fuck Keith’s life, if Dad is right about this, Keith will never forgive himself for missing out. It’s been four months since he and Shiro have seen each other, four months since they’ve actually spoken, and Shiro hasn’t texted Keith since Worlds ended. There’s no reason for Shiro to have come to Thaldycon—but Dad wouldn’t have made up a name like _Takashi Shirogane_. If he had, then he wouldn’t be pronouncing it correctly, not unless he’d heard somebody else pronounce it, first.

So, if Shiro’s here? If he actually came all this way? Maybe, then, there’s hope. In all likelihood, Shiro’s only here because he remembered Keith mentioning _something_ about the resort and he needed to get some time away from it all before next season starts—but maybe, just maybe, Shiro won’t entirely mind seeing Keith. Maybe they can work together to figure out whatever he thought he was talking about in the nonsensical messages that he’s left for Keith.

Barreling through the locker room, Keith clings to that hope like a life-raft. He could slow down on the damp tiles around the tubs and showers, but instead, he leaps over any puddles that get in his way, bounding in the direction of the bright red, illuminated exit sign. The harder he runs, the further away it seems and the harder his heartbeat surges, blood rushing through his ears and pulse pounding like the worst, deepest drums in the universe—

Finally, Keith slams the door open. Just barely avoids skidding on the floor or slamming face-first into the plexiglass. Panting, he looks around the whole yard, eyes darting over every sprint until— _grrrr, yarp!_ —Kosmo barks and a gasp shocks into Keith.

He whips around to the right spot and there—right there, at the pool directly in front of him but furthest back—Kosmo perks up, eyes glimmering and tail bopping excitedly. A large, long-fingered hand gently ruffles his ears, then the fur on the back of his neck. Tracing his eyes up the arm attached to that hand, up the taut muscles and tawny skin, Keith feels like his knees might give way beneath him. He doesn’t know how his feet move him closer to the hot spring—but then again, Keith has no idea how he doesn’t drop dead from taking in the kind smile beaming at him, brighter than sunshine, and the gleaming of those soft, gray eyes, or—

“Keith,” he says, so earnestly that it makes Keith’s chest ache. “It’s so good to see you—”

“Shiro, I…” Keith’s voice cracks. His eyes sting, and fuck, could he _please_ not cry, today? “Why are you here…?”

The first big thing Keith notices, as Shiro eases himself up to his feet: he only has the one arm. His prosthetic must be in a locker or in his room. A spiderwebbed map of fading, pink scars lines the spot where his right arm abruptly stops. _This is…_ ** _Fuck_** —Keith hasn’t seen Shiro’s arm without a prosthetic attached, not since he and Lance visited California after Keith took home his one gold medal from Worlds. Back then, Shiro still had to cover it with bandages, and his whole sense of balance had been thrown off so badly, he couldn’t help staggering through all his motions like a drunk.

Now, though, Shiro moves with the sort of grace that’s won him more medals and trophies than Keith entirely wants to count. He grins like he’s genuinely glad to be here—like he’s actually excited, much less _happy_ , to have Keith running out to meet him—and he might as well have incandescent sparkles raining down around him, because he lights up the yard like a star in human form.

“Starting today, I’m going to be your new coach,” Shiro tells Keith, still smiling like he has no idea how to stop. “We’re going to get you back to the Grand Prix Final, and this year? You’re going to bring home that gold medal.”

He says this with such authority that Keith only comes up with a single protest— _“What about Thace, though? Have you talked to him? Because I haven’t, and I don’t know how I can fire my own uncle, Shiro”_ —and Keith can’t make himself spit that out. Not with Shiro radiating all of that painfully earnest belief, winking like he can’t tell that Keith’s grown a plush belly and thunder-thighs since they last saw each other—or if he can tell, then… does Shiro just not _care_? Is that what’s going on here? How can he purport to be Keith’s coach if he doesn’t care that Keith’s standing before him with love-handles and chubby cheeks, definitely not the body of a figure skater?

Then, as his brain fumbles around, struggling to catch up with itself as Keith’s thoughts pile up like a multi-car wreck on the Autobahn, the second big thing about what he’s stumbled upon sets in and a hot, red blush erupts on Keith’s face and neck: sweet fucking gods, Shiro is completely naked.

**Author's Note:**

> IT’S OVER.
> 
> Or, well, this part of it is because, knowing me, I will inevitably end up writing more fic that goes more into this reality’s versions of the scenes that actually happen in the YOI anime. For now, though, this installment is over and I’m still wondering how on earth it got this out-of-hand and how it got so far away from me on length. I’m so, so sorry that it’s going up so late, for the exchange, and I hope that at least some of it was enjoyable enough to compensate for being late. ♡♡♡
> 
> * * *
> 
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Personal reactions/interpretations
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
>   * Comments made with the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta).
> 

> 
> The author reads and appreciates all comments, and gets back to all of them eventually, but may be slow to reply due to trying to rein in the ADHD/anxiety cocktail.
> 
> If, for any reason, you don’t want to receive a reply, just put, “whisper” near the start of your comment, and I’ll appreciate it without replying.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> As ever, I’m also on Tumblr ( **[amorremanet](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com/)** , though not quite as often anymore), Pillowfort ( **[amorremanet](https://www.pillowfort.io/amorremanet)** ), Dreamwidth ( **[amor_remanet](http://amor-remanet.dreamwidth.org/)** ), Twitter ( **[amorremanet](https://twitter.com/amorremanet/)** ), and Discord ( **amorremanet#5500** ), and I always love talking about Shiro, hurt/comfort, gay shit, and Shiro.


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